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GITANJALI BOOK IN BENGALI

Thursday, February 13, 2020


resourceone.info - Buy Gitanjali (Bengali) book online at best prices in India on Amazon .in. Read Gitanjali (Bengali) book reviews & author details and more at. The typesetting and spellings in the book are all incorrect. It is a shoddily published body of work which is largely unusable. I shall be returning mine. Keep away. Gitanjali is a collection of poems by the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore. Tagore received the Nobel Prize for Literature, largely for the book. And is part of the.


Gitanjali Book In Bengali

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Free download or read online ✅Gitanjali bangla book from the category of Rabindranath Tagore. Portable Document Format (PDF) file size of Gitanjali is Gitanjali is a collection of poems by the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore. Tagore received the Nobel Prize for Literature, largely for the book. It is part of the . Gitanjali Song offerings a bi-lingual centenary edition.

Ray said his Bengali was bad? He hated my work. We used to be very friendly, but of late years had little intercourse. He lost no opportunity of attacking me. Was it jealousy? I never said a word against them, but he gathered from my silence that I did not think them good. When he knew he was dying, he wrote me a long letter, regretting the past and wanting to put matters straight.

There is no doubt the letter was written, for men have seen it.

But his family destroyed it and never sent it to me. It is the name I have heard you called by, long before you were famous in Europe. It is only in England that I am Mr Tagore.

Very different. I happen to know this is so. There has been a dead set against him. Years ago, when I was very young, there was a big meeting in the Town Hall. I had to speak and it strained my voice in that hall.

When I had finished, the people insisted I should sing — for in those days I was much better known as a singer than a poet — and I had to. I strained my voice so much that it seems never to have been right again.

I mentioned Francis Thompson. In England, if a man is recognised as a poet, all parties accept him and he is treated with great respect.

But here, in the abstract, at any rate, people have a great reverence for the name of poet. I said that, in my opinion, it was misleading and ill-informed.

Parts of it are quite wrong. They say we Tagores are not like other Bengalis but are like a separate nation in the nation. Bengalis always complain that my poems are obscure.

About 4. I have to go somewhere. Three groups were playing football. I went to another, who were cricketing. I found they played really well, especially as they were small boys.

After a time I said I would show them how to bowl off-breaks. A great crowd gathered, to see the exhibition ball. A master was batting. I tossed down a dolly, which pitched a good foot outside the off-stump. He wiped wildly, the ball broke a foot and knocked the off-stump flat.

The crowd was tremendously impressed; had I been wise, I should have bowled no more. I was fool enough to be persuaded later to take the leather in hand again. The pitch was very short, so I sent down a few overpitched balls, which a master mowed to considerable distances. It was presently dark and the students were very anxious I should address them. Only two other sahibs visit here, Andrews and Pearson, and they are immensely popular. So they brought their strips of matting and sat on the big treeless plain behind, in the moonlight.

Kali Mohan Ghosh, who was in England with Rabi, took the chair and in the simplest possible English told a lot of lies about me.

Book: Gitanjali

As a matter of fact, I never saw either of them. However, I spoke for about ten minutes in Bengali, and about fifteen in English. They all assured me afterwards that my Bengali was excellent and that I made no mistake either in idiom or pronunciation: but said the boys had only heard one sahib talk Bengali before and the strangeness overcame their risible faculties.

They really seemed immensely pleased that I had spoken in Bengali, and we chatted on for a long time, boys, masters, myself, laughing and joking under the moon. I felt more at home than I had yet done in India and we became great friends.

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Presently a hubbub arose, the masters rushed up with a sheaf of telegrams. I was nearly dancing with joy. I would not have swapped being the one outsider there on this night of madness for anything.

There had been a half-holiday the previous day, by the way, for Nanak. Rabi and I were sitting on the sofa, and they went past when they saw that. But they would not go past the second time, but gathered at the door. I went and looked at them. They had gone wild. Then a frenzy of worship seized on them and they, one after another, threw themselves down and touched his feet.

That saint of a man stood deprecating, with his hands to his face, palms together, begging pardon. When his superintendent came, he tried to stop him from homage. But all, masters, boys, servants, did homage. I could have done it myself almost: but I am an Englishman and have a stern contempt for the fools who pretend they are Easterners. The mob shouted and sang.

It was now about 8 p. Rabi told me that the Nobel award was not altogether unexpected. When in England, he had been asked to send copies of his books and of press-cuttings to the Nobel committee.

I shall be worried with appeals, all kinds of people will be writing to me. Do you know, Mr Thompson, sometimes I feel as if it were too much for me, as if I could bear it no longer. When I reached Bombay, I saw a lot of people with garlands.

I thought they were waiting to garland some official. My heart sank when I found that they were wanting to make a public show of me there. I saw it would be well to draw his mind off, so I suggested that I should explain my further corrections. He seemed relieved and drew his chair up to the table. I asked him about his early translations of Shelley. He said they were done when he was about We had not known that we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in Him; yet looking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the pathways of woods, in our delight in the lonely places of hills, in that mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly on the woman that we have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness.

Francis and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history. We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics — all dull things in the doing — while Mr.

Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity.

I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony — and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

I know thou takest pleasure in my singing.

I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence. I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach. Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement. The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky.

Gitanjali By Rabindranath Tagore

The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on. My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master! Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs. I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind.

I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart. And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.

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Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of live in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust. I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it.

I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by. Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time. My song has put off her adornments.

She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the world, and is afraid even to move.

Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keep one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life. O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!

O beggar, to come beg at thy own door! Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind in regret. Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath. It is unholy — take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.

Accept only what is offered by sacred love. Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.I have nothing to do. In other projects Wikimedia Commons. Then, they preach very high doctrine and our people expect them to live up to it.

A literal translation of an epigram was the flattest thing in the world. My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. Put of thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!