Tagore Nobel Prize. Rabindranath Tagore - biography, information, personal life

All destruction

The final misfortune reigns everywhere. She filled the whole world with sobs, and flooded everything, like water, with suffering. And lightning among the clouds is like a furrow. On the distant shore the thunder does not want to cease, The wild madman laughs again and again, Uncontrollably, not knowing shame. The final misfortune reigns everywhere. Life is now drunk with the revelry of death, The moment has come - and check yourself. Give her everything, give her everything, And don’t look back in despair, And don’t hide anything anymore, Bowing your head to the ground. There was no trace of peace left. The final misfortune reigns everywhere. We must choose the path now: The fire at your bed has gone out, The house is lost in the pitch darkness, A storm has burst inside and is raging in it, The building is shaking to its foundations. Can't you hear the loud call of Your country, sailing to nowhere? The final misfortune reigns everywhere. Shame on you! And stop unnecessary crying! Don’t hide your face from horror! Do not pull the edge of the sari over your eyes. Why is there a storm in your soul? Are your gates still locked? Break the castle! Go away! Soon both joy and sorrow will disappear forever. The final misfortune reigns everywhere. Will your voice really hide your glee? Is it really possible that in the dancing, in the menacing swaying, the bracelets on the legs will not sound? The game with which you bear the seal is fate itself. Forget what happened before! Come in blood-red clothes, Just as you came as a bride then. Everywhere, everywhere - the last trouble. Translation by A. Akhmatova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Hero of Bengal

* * *

The rains have dried up, and a lonely voice of separation begins to sound. The time has come to collect the melodies; the road ahead of you is long. The last thunder rumbled, the ferry moored to the shore, - Bh appeared A draw without violating the deadlines. In the Kadamba forest, a light layer of flower pollen turns yellow. Inflorescences to e the currents are forgotten by the restless bee. The forests are embraced by the silence, dew lurks in the air, And in the light from all the rain there are only highlights, reflections, hints. Translation by M. Petrovykh

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Woman

You are not only the creation of God, you are not a product of the earth, - a man creates you from his spiritual beauty. For you, O woman, the poets have woven an expensive outfit, The golden threads of metaphors on your clothes are burning. The painters immortalized your feminine appearance on canvas in unprecedented grandeur, in amazing purity. How many different incense and colors were brought to you as a gift, How many pearls from the abyss, how much gold from the earth. How many delicate flowers were torn off for you on spring days, How many insects were exterminated to color your feet. In these saris and bedspreads, hiding your shy gaze, You immediately became more inaccessible and more mysterious a hundredfold. Your features shone differently in the fire of desires. You are half a creature, half an imagination. Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Life

In this sunny world I don’t want to die, I would like to live forever in this flowering forest, Where people leave to come back again, Where hearts beat and flowers collect dew. Life goes on the earth in strings of days and nights, a succession of meetings and separations, a series of hopes and losses, - If you hear joy and pain in my song, It means that the dawns of immortality will illuminate my garden in the night. If the song dies, then, like everyone else, I will go through life - A nameless drop in the stream of a great river; I will grow songs in the garden like flowers - Let tired people come into my flower beds, Let them bow down to them, let them pick flowers as they go, To throw them away when the petals fall into the dust. Translation by N. Voronel.

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Life is precious

I know that this vision will one day come to an end. For my heavy eyelids the last sleep will fall. And the night, as always, will come, and the morning will come again in the bright rays of the awakened universe. The game of life will continue, noisy as always, Joy or misfortune will appear under every roof. Today with such thoughts I look at the earthly world, Greedy curiosity controls me today. My eyes do not see anything insignificant anywhere, Every inch of earth seems priceless to me. The heart loves and needs every little thing, the soul - useless itself - has no price anyway! I need everything that I had, and everything that I didn’t have, And that I once rejected, that I couldn’t see. Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

From the clouds - the roar of a drum, a mighty, incessant rumble... A wave of dull roar stirred my heart, Its beating was drowned in the thunder. The pain lurked in my soul, as if in an abyss - the more sorrowful, the more wordless, But a damp wind flew by, and the forest rustled protractedly, And my sorrow suddenly sounded like a song. Translation by M. Petrovykh

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

From the darkness I came, where the rains roar. You are alone now, locked up. Shelter your traveler under the arches of the temple! From distant paths, from the depths of the forest, I brought you jasmine, boldly dreaming: will you want to weave it into your hair? I will slowly wander back into the darkness, full of the ringing of cicadas, I will not utter a word, I will only bring the flute to my lips, Sending my song - my parting gift - to you on the way. Translation by Yu. Neumann.

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

Indian, you will not sell your pride, Let the huckster look at you insolently! He arrived from the West to this region, - But don’t take off your light scarf. Walk firmly on your path, without listening to false, empty speeches. The treasures hidden in your heart will worthily decorate a humble house, clothe your brow with an invisible crown, the dominion of gold sows evil, there are no limits to unbridled luxury, but do not be embarrassed, do not fall on your face! Through your poverty you will be rich, - Peace and freedom will inspire your spirit. Translation by N. Stefanovich

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

India-lakshmi

O you, enchanting people, O earth, shining in the brilliance of the sun's rays, the great Mother of mothers, Valleys washed by the noisy Indus, the wind - forest, trembling bowls, With its Himalayan snow crown flying into the sky; In your sky the sun rose for the first time, for the first time the forests heard the saints of the Vedas, for the first time legends and living songs sounded in your houses and in the forests, in the vastness of the fields; You are our ever-blooming wealth, giving the people a full cup, You are the Jumna and the Ganga, there is nothing more beautiful, more free, you are the nectar of life, the milk of mothers! Translation by N. Tikhonov

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Towards civilization

Give us back the forest. Take your city, full of noise and smoky haze. Take your stone, iron, fallen trunks. Modern civilization! Soul Eater! Give us back shade and coolness in the sacred silence of the forest. These evening baths, the sunset light over the river, A herd of cows grazing, the quiet songs of the Vedas, Handfuls of grains, grass, clothes from the bark, Conversations about the great truths that we have always had in our souls, These days that we spent are immersed in thoughts. I don’t even need royal pleasures in your prison. I want freedom. I want to feel like I’m flying again, For the strength to return to my heart again, I want. I want to know that the shackles are broken, I want to break the chains. I want to feel the eternal trembling of the heart of the universe again. Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Karma

I called the servant this morning and didn’t get through. I looked - the door was unlocked. No water has been poured. The tramp did not return to spend the night. Without it, unfortunately, I won’t find clean clothes. I don’t know if my food is ready. And time went on and on... Oh, so! OK then. Let him come - I’ll teach the lazy guy a lesson. When he came in the middle of the day, greeting me, folding his palms respectfully, I said angrily: “Get out of sight right away, I don’t need lazy people in the house.” Staring blankly at me, he silently listened to the reproach. Then, hesitating to answer, uttering words with difficulty, he said to me: “My girl died today before dawn.” He said and hurried to start his work as soon as possible. Armed with a white towel, He, as always until then, diligently cleaned, scrubbed and rubbed, Until he was done with the last thing. * Karma - building retribution. Translation by V. Tushnova.

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Cry

Nobody will ever be able to turn us back. And for those who block our path, misfortune awaits, trouble. We are breaking the bonds. Forward, forward - Through the heat, through the cold of bad weather! And for those who weave nets for us, get there ourselves. Trouble awaits them, trouble. That's Shiva's cry. In the distance His calling horn sings. The midday sky and a thousand roads are calling. Space merges with the soul, The rays are intoxicating, and the gaze is angry. And those who love the darkness of holes are always afraid of the rays. Trouble awaits them, trouble. We will conquer everything - both the heights of peaks and any ocean. Oh, don't be timid! You are not alone, Friends are always with you. And for those who are tormented by fear, Who withered away alone, Stay within four walls For many years. Trouble awaits them, trouble. Shiva will wake up. The trumpet will blow. Our banner will fly into space. Barriers will fall. The way is open. A long-standing dispute has ended. Let the churned ocean boil and grant us immortality. And those who honor death as God cannot escape judgment! Trouble awaits them, trouble. Translation by A. Revich

Rabindranath Tagore. Favorites. School library. Translation from Bengali. Moscow: Education, 1987.

* * *

When suffering brings Me to your threshold, You call him and open the Door for him. It will give up everything in order to experience happy captivity in its hands; The steep one will hurry along the path to the light in your house... You call him and open the door for him. I come out of pain with song; Having listened to her, go out into the night at least for a minute, leave your home. Like a swift that is knocked down by a storm in the darkness, That song beats on the ground. To meet my grief You hasten into the darkness, Oh, call him and open the Door for him yourself. Translation by T. Spendiarova

Rabindranath Tagore. Favorites. School library. Translation from Bengali. Moscow: Education, 1987.

* * *

When I don’t see you in my dreams, It seems to me that the Earth is whispering spells to disappear under my feet. And I want to cling to the empty sky, raising my hands, in horror. In fright, I wake up and see how you spin wool, bending low, sitting motionless next to me, revealing all the peace of creation. Translation by A. Akhmatova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

Once upon a time, embarrassed by your wedding attire, Here, in the world of bustle, you stood next to me, And the touch of hands was trembling. Was it a whim of fate that everything happened suddenly? It was not arbitrariness, not a fleeting moment, but a secret providence and a command from above. And I lived my life with my beloved dream, That we would be, you and I, unity and couple. How richly you drew from my soul! How many fresh streams she once poured into her! What we created in excitement, in shame, In labors and vigils, in victories and misfortunes, Between ups and losses - something that is forever alive, Who is able to complete? Just you and me, the two of us. Translation by S. Shervinsky

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

Who are you, distant one? A flute began to sing in the distance... A snake swayed and danced, Hearing the melody of an unfamiliar land. Whose song is this? To what lands does the Flute call us... is your flute? You're spinning. Hair and rings scattered and flew up. Like the light wind, your cape is torn into the clouds, thrown upward by the arcs of the rainbow. Shine, awakening, confusion, takeoff! There is excitement in the waters, the thicket is singing, the wings are rustling. From depths to heights Everything is revealed - souls and doors, - Your flute is in a hidden cave, Your flute is powerfully calling me to you! Low notes, high notes - sounds mixing, waves without counting! Waves upon waves and again a wave! Sounds break into the edge of silence, - Into the cracks of consciousness, into vague dreams, - The sun is getting drunk, the moon is drowning! The ecstatic dance is getting closer and closer! I see the secret, I see the hidden, engulfed in a whirlwind, in burning joy: There in the dungeon, in the cave, in the gorge, The flute is in your hands! Flutes of joy, Snatching drunken lightning from the clouds, Bursts into the earth from the darkness With juices - into the champa, into the leaves and flowers! Like shafts, right through, through dams, Inside through walls, through thickness, through piles of Stone - into the depths! Everywhere! Everywhere there is a Call and a spell, a ringing miracle! Leaving the darkness, the age-old snake crawls, hidden in the heart-cave. The twisted darkness lay quietly, - She hears the flute, your flute! Oh, enchant, enchant, and from the bottom to the sun, at your feet, she will come out. Call, rescue, snatch from those! Visible from everywhere in a bright ray, It will be like foam, like a whirlwind and a wave, Merged in a dance with everything and everyone, Curling to the ringing sound, Having loosened the hood. How she will approach the grove in bloom, To the sky and shine, To the wind and splash! Drunk on the light! All in the light! Translation by Z. Mirkina

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Mother Bengal

In virtues and vices, in the change of ups, downs, passions, O my Bengal! Make your children adults. Don’t keep your mother’s knees locked in their houses, Let their paths diverge in all four directions. Let them scatter all over the country, wander here and there, let them look for a place in life and let them find it. Don’t entangle them like boys, weaving a net out of prohibitions. Let them learn courage in suffering, let them face death with dignity. Let them fight for good, raising the sword against evil. If you love your sons, Bengal, if you want to save them, thin, respectable, with everlasting silence in their blood, tear them away from their usual life, tear them away from the thresholds. Children - seventy million! Mother, blinded by love, You raised them as Bengalis, but did not make them human. Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Metaphor

When the river lacks the strength to overcome the obstacles, the silt covers the standing water in a shroud. When a wall of old prejudices rises everywhere, the country becomes frozen and indifferent. The path they walk on remains a well-worn path; it will not be lost, it will not be overgrown with weeds. The codes of mantras were closed and the country's paths were blocked. The current has stopped. She has nowhere to go. Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Sea waves

(Written on the occasion of the sinking of boats carrying pilgrims near the city of Puri) In the darkness, like an incoherent delirium, celebrate your destruction - O wild hell! Is it the frenzied whistling of the wind, or the sound of millions of wings thundering all around? And the sky instantly merged with the sea to close the view of the universe, blinding it. Is it a sudden arrow of lightning or is it a terrible, white grin of evil twisting? Without a heart, without hearing or sight, an army of some giants rushes intoxicated - Destroying everything in madness. No color, no shapes, no lines. In the bottomless, black abyss - Confusion, anger. And the sea rushes with a cry, and beats in wild laughter, Osatanev. And he fumbles - where is the border so that he can be crushed against it, Where are the shores of the devil? Vasuki, in a roar and squeal, smashes the trees into splashes with a blow of his tail. The earth has sunk somewhere, and the whole planet is shaken by the storm. And the networks of sleep are torn apart. Unconsciousness, Wind. Clouds. There is no rhythm and no consonance - Only the dance of a dead man. Death is looking for something again - it takes without counting And without end. Today, in the leaden darkness, she needs new prey. And what? At random, without feeling distances, some people in the fog are flying towards their death. Their path is irreversible. Several hundred people fit into the boat. Everyone clings to his life! It's already difficult to fight back. And the storm abandons the ship: “Come on!” Let's!" And the foaming sea thunders, echoing the hurricane: “Come on! Let's!" Surrounding on all sides, blue death circles, turning pale with anger. Now you can’t hold back the pressure - and the ship will collapse soon: The sea’s wrath is terrible. For the storm and this is a prank! Everything is confused, mixed up - Both heaven and earth... But the helmsman is at the helm. And people, through the darkness and anxiety, through the roar, cry out to God: “Oh, all-merciful one! Have mercy, O great one!” There are prayers and cries: “Save! Cover it!” But it’s too late to call and pray! Where is the sun? Where is the star dome? Where is the grace of happiness? And were there years of no return? And those who were so loved? It's the stepmother here, not the mother! Abyss. Thunderclaps. Everything is wild and unfamiliar. Madness, darkness... And the ghosts are endless. The iron side could not stand, the bottom was broken, and the abyss's mouth was open. It is not the Almighty who reigns here! Here is the dead nature of the predatory Blind power! In the impenetrable darkness the cry of a child resounds loudly. Confusion, trembling... And the sea is like a grave: what didn’t happen or happened - You can’t tell. It was as if an angry wind had blown out someone’s lamps... And at the same hour the Light of joy went out somewhere. How could a free mind arise without eyes in chaos? After all, dead matter, the Meaningless beginning, did not understand, did not realize Itself. Where does the unity of hearts, the fearlessness of motherhood come from? So the brothers hugged each other, saying goodbye, grieving, crying. .. O hot ray of sunshine, O past, come back! Helplessly and timidly through their tears, Hope shone again: The lamp was lit by love. Why do we always meekly surrender to black death? The executioner, the dead man, The monster is waiting blind to devour everything holy - Then the end. But even before death, holding the child to her heart, the mother does not retreat. Is it really all in vain? No, evil death has no power to take the Child from her! Here is an abyss and an avalanche of waves, there is a mother, protecting her son, Standing alone. Who is given to take away his power? Her power is endless: she blocked the child, covering herself. But in the kingdom of death - where does love come from such a miracle And such light? In it is the immortal grain of life, the miraculous source of innumerable bounties. Whoever this wave of warmth and light touches will find his mother. Oh, that all hell has risen for her, trampling death with love, And a menacing squall! But who gave her such love? Love and cruelty of revenge always exist together, - Intertwined, fighting. Hopes, fears, anxieties live in one chamber: Communication is everywhere. And everyone, having fun and crying, solves one problem: Where is the truth, where is the lie? Nature strikes on a grand scale, but there will be no fear in your heart, When you come to love. And if the alternation of blossoming and withering, Victories, fetters - Just an endless dispute between two gods? Translation by N. Stefanovich

Rabindranath Tagore. Favorites. School library. Translation from Bengali. Moscow: Education, 1987.

Courageous

Or are women not allowed to fight and forge their own destiny? Or is it there in heaven that our lot is decided? Should I stand at the edge of the road humbly and anxiously, Wait for happiness on the way, Like a gift from heaven... Or should I not find happiness myself? I want to strive in pursuit of him, like in a chariot, bridling an indomitable horse. I believe: a Treasure is waiting for me, which, like a miracle, without sparing myself, I will obtain. Not the timidity of a girl, with her bracelets jingling, But let the courage of love lead me, And boldly I will take my wedding wreath, The darkness cannot, like a gloomy shadow, Overshadow the happy moment. I want my chosen one to comprehend in me not the timidity of humiliation, but the pride of self-respect, and then before him I will throw away the cover of unnecessary shame. We will meet on the seashore, And the roar of the waves will fall like thunder, So that the sky will sound. I will say, throwing back the veil from my face: “You are mine forever!” A dull noise will be heard from the wings of birds. To the west, overtaking the wind, the birds will fly into the distance in the starlight. Creator, oh, don’t leave me speechless, Let the music of the soul ring in me when we meet. Let our word be ready to express everything that is highest in us at the highest moment, Let speech flow in a stream Transparent and deep, And let the beloved understand Everything that is inexpressible for me, Let a stream of words flow from the soul And, having sounded, freeze in silence. Translation by M. Zenkevich

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

We live in the same village

I live in the same village as her. Only in this we were lucky - me and her. As soon as the thrush begins to whistle near their home, my heart will immediately begin to dance in my chest. A pair of sweet-bred lambs grazes under the willow tree in the morning; If, having broken the fence, they enter the garden, I, caressing them, take them on my knees. Our village is called Khondzhona, Our river is called Ondzhona, My name is known to everyone here, And it is simply called our Rondzhona. We live almost next to each other: I’m over there, She’s here, only the meadow separates us. Having left their forest, a swarm of bees may suddenly fly into our grove with a hum. Those roses that at the next hour of prayer are thrown into the water from the ghat as a gift to God, are nailed to our ghat by a wave; And sometimes, from their neighborhood in the spring, they bring flowers to our market to sell. Our village is called Khondzhona, Our river is called Ondzhona, My name is known to everyone here, And it is simply called our Rondzhona. Mango groves and green fields approached that village from all sides. In the spring, flax sprouts in their field, and hemp rises in ours. If the stars have risen above their home, Then the south wind blows above ours, If the showers bend their palm trees to the ground, Then a flower is blooming in our forest. Our village is called Khondzhona, Our river is called Ondzhona, My name is known to everyone here, And it is simply called our Rondzhona. Translation by T. Spendiarova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Impossible

Loneliness? What does it mean? Years pass, You walk in desolation, not knowing why or where. The moon is driving the cloud over the forest foliage, The heart of the night was cut by lightning with a swing of the blade, I hear Varuni splashing, her stream rushing into the night. My soul tells me: the impossible cannot be overcome. How many times on a bad night has my beloved fallen asleep in my arms, listening to the rain and the verse. The forest rustled, disturbed by the sob of a heavenly stream, Body and spirit merged, my desires were born, The rainy night gave me precious feelings, But my soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome. I go into the darkness, wandering along the wet road, and the long song of the rain is heard in my blood. A gusty wind brought the sweet smell of jasmine. The smell of maloti wood, the smell of girlish braids; In my dear’s braids, these flowers smelled just like that, exactly the same. But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome. Lost in thought, I wander somewhere at random. There's someone's house on my road. I see: the windows are on fire. I hear the sounds of a sitar, the melody of a simple song, This is my song, watered with a warm tear, This is my glory, this is sadness that has gone away. But the soul says: the impossible cannot be overcome. Translation by A. Revich.

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

Twilight descends and the blue edge of the sari envelops the world in its dirt and burning, - The house is in ruins, the clothes are torn shame. Oh, let sorrow for you, like calm evenings, descend into my poor spirit and in darkness envelop all my life with its melancholy of the past, when I was dragging along, worn out, frail and lame. Oh, let her in my soul, merging evil with good, draw a circle for me for golden sadness. There are no desires in the heart, the worries are silent... Let me not again indulge in dull rebellion, - Everything that was is gone... There I go, Where the flame is even in the lamp of rendezvous, Where the ruler of the universe is eternally joyful. Translation by S. Shervinsky

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Night

O night, lonely night! Under the vast sky you sit and whisper something. Looking into the face of the universe, Her hair unraveled, Affectionate and dark... What are you singing, O night? I hear your cry again. But to this day I cannot comprehend your songs. My spirit is lifted up by you, my eyes are clouded by sleep. And someone in the wilderness of my soul sings your song, oh beloved. With your light voice he sings with you, as if your own brother is lost in his soul, alone, and anxiously looking for roads. He sings the hymns of your homeland and waits for an answer. And, having waited, he comes towards... As if these fugitive sounds awaken the memory of someone bygone, As if he laughed here, and cried, And called someone to his starry home. He wants to come here again - And he can’t find the way... How many affectionate half-words and bashful half-smiles, Old songs and sighs of the soul, How many tender hopes and conversations of love, How many stars, how many tears in silence, O night, he gave you And in I buried you in your darkness!.. And these sounds and stars float, Like worlds turned to dust, In your endless seas. And when I sit alone on your shore, Songs and stars surround me, Life embraces me, And, beckoning with a smile, Floats forward, And blooms, and melts in the distance, and calls... Night, today I have come again, So that in your eyes Look, I want to be silent for you And I want to sing for you. Where my former songs are, and my lost laughter, And the swarm of forgotten dreams, Preserve my songs, night, And build a tomb for them. Night, I sing for you again, I know, night, I am your love. Hide the song from the intense malice, Bury it in the cherished land... The dew will slowly fall, The forests will sigh rhythmically. Silence, propped up with its hand, will carefully come there... Only sometimes, sliding like a tear, a star will fall on the tomb. Translation by D. Golubkov

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

O flaming boyshakh, listen! Let your bitter sigh of an ascetic herald the disintegration of flourishing, May the motley rubbish be swept away, circling in the dust. Let the memories go away, the echoes of the early song, Let the haze of tears dissipate in the distance. Overcome earthly fatigue, destroy it by taking a bath in the burning heat and immersing yourself in dry land. Destroy the weariness of everyday life in an angry blaze, send down redemption with the thunderous roar of the shell, heal from blissful peace! Translation by M. Petrovykh

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

Oh, the unity of mind, spirit and mortal flesh! The mystery of life, which is in an eternal cycle. For centuries, full of fire, the magical play of starry nights and days in the sky has not been interrupted. The universe embodies its anxieties in the oceans, in steep rocks - severity, tenderness - in crimson dawns. The web of existences moving everywhere, Each one feels like magic and miracle. Sometimes unknown waves of vibrations rush through the soul, Each one contains the eternal universe within itself. I carry the bed of union with the ruler and creator, the immortal throne of the deity in my heart. Oh, boundless beauty! O king of earth and heaven! I was created by you as the most wonderful of miracles. Translation by N. Stefanovich

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

Oh, I know, My days will pass, they will pass, And some year in the evening, the dimmed sun, saying goodbye to me, Will smile at me sadly In one of the last minutes. The flute will sound drawn out along the road, a steep-horned ox will graze peacefully near the creek, a child will run around the house, the birds will start their songs. And the days will pass, my days will pass. I ask for one thing, I beg for one thing: Let me find out before I leave, Why was I created, Why did the Green Earth call me? Why did the silence of the night force me to listen to the sound of starry speeches? Why, why did the radiance of the day excite my Soul? That's what I'm begging for. When my days pass, the earthly term ends, I want my song to be heard to the end, so that a clear, sonorous note will crown it. For life to bear fruit, like a flower, I want you to see your bright appearance in the radiance of this life, so that I can put my wreath on you when your time is up. Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Ordinary girl

I am a girl from Ontokhpur. It's clear that you don't know me. I read your last story, “Garland of Faded Flowers,” Shorot-Babu. Your shorn heroine died in her thirty-fifth year. Since she was fifteen, misfortunes have befallen her. I realized that you really are a magician: You allowed the girl to triumph. I'll tell you about myself. I am not many years old, But I have already attracted one heart and felt a reciprocal awe towards it. But what am I! I’m a girl like everyone else, and in my youth many people enchant. Please, I ask, write a story about a completely ordinary girl. She's unhappy. What is extraordinary hidden in the depths of Her, Please find and show So that then everyone will notice it. She's so simple-minded. What she needs is not truth, but happiness. It's so easy to captivate her! Now I will tell you how it all happened to me. Let's say his name is Noresh. He said that for him there is no one in the world, there is only me. I didn’t dare believe these praises, but I couldn’t not believe them either. And so he left for England. Soon letters began to arrive from there, not very often, however. Still would! I thought he had no time for me. There are tons of girls there, and everyone is beautiful, And everyone is smart and will be crazy about my Noresh Sen, in chorus Regretting that he was hidden for so long in his homeland from enlightened eyes. And in one letter he wrote that he went with Lizzie to the sea to swim, and quoted Bengali poems about a heavenly maiden who emerged from the waves. Then they sat on the sand, And the waves rolled up to their feet, And the sun smiled at them from the sky. And Lizzie quietly told him: “You’re still here, but you’ll soon go away, Here’s an open shell. Shed at least one tear into her, and she will be dearer to me than a pearl.” What pretentious expressions! Noresh wrote, however: “It’s okay that the words are obviously so pompous, but they sound so good. Flowers made of gold in solid diamonds do not exist in nature either, and yet their artificiality does not hinder their price.” These comparisons from his letter secretly pierced my heart with thorns. I am a simple girl and not so spoiled by wealth that I don’t know the Real price of things. Alas! Whatever you say, this happened, And I couldn’t repay him. I beg you, write a story About a simple girl, to whom you can Say goodbye from afar and forever Remain in a select circle of acquaintances, Close to the owner of seven cars. I realized that my life was broken, that I was unlucky. However, let the one whom you bring out in the story disgrace her enemies in revenge for me. I wish your pen happiness. Malati name (that's my name) Give it to the girl. They won't recognize me in it. There are too many malatis, too many to count in Bengal, and they are all simple. They don't speak foreign languages, but only know how to cry. Give Malati the joy of celebration. After all, you are smart, your pen is powerful. Like Shakuntala, they tempered her in suffering. But have pity on me. The only thing I asked the Almighty for, lying at night, I am deprived of. Save it for the heroine of your story. Let him stay in London for seven years, always missing exams, always busy with fans. In the meantime, may your Malati receive the title of Doctor of Science from the University of Calcutta. Make Her, with a single stroke of the pen, a Great Mathematician. But don't stop there. Be more generous than God, And send your girl to Europe. Let the best minds there, Rulers, artists, poets, Be captivated like a new star, Like a woman and a scientist. Let it thunder not in the country of the ignorant, but in a society with a good upbringing, Where, along with the English language, French and German are heard. It is necessary that there be names around Malati and receptions are prepared in her honor, that conversation flows like rain, and that on the streams of eloquence she sails more confidently than a boat with excellent oarsmen. Picture how they are buzzing around her: “The heat of India and thunderstorms are in this gaze.” I will note, by the way, that in my Eyes, unlike your Malati, only love for the creator shines through and that with my poor eyes I have not seen a single Well-bred European here. Let Noresh stand as a witness to her victories, pushed aside by the crowd. What then? I won't continue! This is where my dreams end. Did you still have the courage to grumble at the Almighty, Simple girl? Translation by B. Pasternak

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Ordinary person

At sunset, with a stick under his arm and a burden on his head, a peasant walks home along the shore, along the grass. If, centuries later, by a miracle, whatever it may be, Returning from the kingdom of death, he appears here again, In the same guise, with the same bag, Confused, looking around in amazement, What crowds of people will run to him immediately, Like everyone else? They will surround the stranger, not taking their eyes off him, How greedily they will catch every word About his life, about happiness, sorrows and love, About the house and about the neighbors, about the field and about the oxen, About his peasant thoughts, his everyday affairs. And the story about him, who is not famous for anything, will then seem to people like a poem of poems. Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Renunciation

At a late hour, he who wished to renounce the world said: “Today I will go to God, my house has become a burden to me. Who kept me at my threshold with witchcraft?” God told him: “I am.” The man didn't hear him. In front of him on the bed, breathing serenely in her sleep, the young wife clutched the baby to her chest. "Who are they, creatures of Maya?" - asked the man. God told him: “I am.” The man did not hear anything. The one who wanted to leave the world stood up and shouted: “Where are you, deity?” God told him: “Here.” The man didn't hear him. The child fussed, cried in his sleep, and sighed. God said, "Come back." But no one heard him. God sighed and exclaimed: “Alas! Be it your way, let it be. But where will you find me if I stay here.” Translation by V. Tushnova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Ferry

Who are you? You transport us, O man from the ferry. Every evening I see you, standing on the threshold of the house, O man from the ferry. When the market ends, young and old wander ashore, there, to the river, by a human wave, my soul is drawn, O man from the ferry. Toward sunset, to the other shore, you directed the ferry to run, And a song arises in me, Vague, like a dream, O man from the ferry. I look straight at the surface of the water, And the moisture of tears fills my gaze. The sunset light falls weightlessly on my soul, O man from the ferry. Your lips are mute, O man from the ferry. What is written in your eyes is clear and familiar, O man from the ferry. As soon as I look into your eyes, I comprehend the depth. There, to the river, my soul is drawn by a human wave, O man from the ferry. Translation by T. Spendiarova

Rabindranath Tagore. Favorites. School library. Translation from Bengali. Moscow: Education, 1987.

* * *

At night, starry herds roam to the sound of the flute. You, invisible, always graze your cows in the sky. Luminous cows illuminate the fruit garden, scattering among the flowers and fruits in all directions. At dawn they run away, only the dust swirls after them. You bring them back to your fold with evening music. I let my desires, dreams, and hopes scatter. O shepherd, my evening will come - will you gather them then? Translation by V. Potapova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Holiday morning

In the morning, the heart inadvertently opened, And peace flowed into it as a living stream. In bewilderment, I followed with my eyes the golden arrow-rays. Aruna's chariot appeared, And the morning bird woke up, Greeting the dawn, chirped, And everything around became even more beautiful. Like a brother, the sky shouted to me: “Come!” And I fell down, clung to his chest, I rose along the ray to the sky, upward, The bounty of the sun poured into my soul. Take me, O solar stream! Direct Aruna's boat to the east And into the boundless blue ocean. Take me, take me with you! Translation by N. Podgorichani

Rabindranath Tagore. Favorites. School library. Translation from Bengali. Moscow: Education, 1987.

* * *

Come, O storm, do not spare my dry branches, The time has come for new clouds, the time for new rains, Let the brilliant night, with a whirlwind of dance, a shower of tears, The faded color of past years quickly be thrown away. Let everything that is destined to leave, leave quickly, quickly! I will spread the mat at night in my empty house. I changed my clothes - I was chilled in the crying rain. The valley is flooded with water, and the river’s banks are numb. Like the sigh of jasmine, my voice flies, getting lost in the distance, And as if beyond the line of death, life has awakened in my soul. Translation by M. Petrovykh

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Drunk

Oh, drunk, intoxicated, You go, the doors are thrown open with a jerk, You let everything down in one night, You go home with an empty wallet. Having despised prophecies, you go on a journey, contrary to calendars, omens, wandering around the world without roads, dragging a load of empty deeds; You expose the sail to the squall, cutting the helm's rope. I am ready, brothers, to accept your vow: Get drunk and head into hell! I have been accumulating wisdom for many years, I have persistently comprehended good and evil, I have accumulated so much junk in my heart that my heart has become too heavy. Oh, how many nights and days I have killed in the most sober of all human companies! I saw a lot - my eyes became weak, I became blind and decrepit from knowledge. My cargo is empty, - let all my poor luggage be scattered by the stormy wind. I understand, brothers, there is only one happiness: Getting drunk and going into hell with your head! Oh, straighten up, crookedness of doubt! O wild intoxication, lead me astray! You demons must grab me and take me away from Lakshmi’s protection! There are family men, there are tons of hard workers, Their peaceful age will be lived with dignity, There are great rich people in the world, There are smaller ones. Whoever can! Let them continue to live as they lived. Carry me, drive me, oh crazy squall! I have understood everything - the best thing to do: Get drunk and head into hell! From now on, I swear, I will abandon everything, - Leisure, sober reason, including - Theories, the wisdom of science, And all the understanding of good and evil. I will empty the vessel of memory, I will forever forget both sadness and grief, I strive for the sea of ​​foamy wine, I will wash laughter in this unsteady sea. Let my dignity be stripped away and carried away by a drunken hurricane! I swear to follow the wrong path: Get drunk and head into hell! Translation by A. Revich

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Raja and his wife

There was one rajah in the world... That day I was punished by the rajah For the fact that, without asking, I went into the forest and climbed a tree there, And from a height, all alone, I watched a blue peacock dance. But a twig suddenly cracked under me, and we fell - me and the twig. Then I sat locked up, I didn’t eat my favorite pies, I didn’t pick fruits in the rajah’s garden, Alas, I didn’t attend the holiday... Who punished me, tell me? Who is hidden under the name of that Raja? And the rajah had a wife - Kind, beautiful, honor and praise to her... I obeyed her in everything... Having learned about my punishment, She looked at me, Then, bowing her head sadly, She hastily went into her peace and closed the door tightly behind you. I didn’t eat or drink all day, I didn’t go to the holiday myself either... But my punishment ended - And in whose arms did I find myself? Who kissed me in tears, Rocked me like a little one in his arms? Who was that? Tell! Tell! Well, what is the name of that rajah's wife? Translation by A. Efron

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

A ray of sunshine laughed in the embrace of the clouds; the rains suddenly dried up. Today I have leisure, wonderful leisure. Which grove would you go to without planning a path? Or maybe run away with the kids to a colorful meadow? I’ll make a boat out of ketoka leaves, fill it with flowers, let it float across the lake, swaying in the wind. I’ll find a shepherd boy in the meadows and play the pipe with a bell. Lying in the thicket, I get smeared with fine pollen, turning yellow around me. Translation by M. Petrovykh

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

The woman who was dear to me once lived in this village. The path to the lake pier led to rotten footbridges and shaky steps. Perhaps only the inhabitants knew the name of this distant village. The cold wind brought an earthy smell from the edge of the forest on cloudy days. Sometimes his impulses grew like this, the trees in the grove leaned down. In the mud of the fields, liquefied by the rains, green rice was choking. Without the close participation of my friend, who lived there in those years, I probably would not have known a lake, a grove, or a village in the area. She took me to the Shiva temple, drowning in the dense forest shadow. Thanks to my acquaintance with her, I vividly remembered the village fences. I wouldn’t know the lake, but She swam across this backwater. She loved to swim in this place, There are traces of her nimble feet in the sand. Supporting jugs on their shoulders, peasant women trudged from the lake with water. Men greeted her at the door when they walked past from the settlement in the fields. She lived in a suburban settlement, How little everything around her had changed! Under the fresh wind, sailing boats, as of old, glide south across the lake. Peasants wait on the shore of the ferry and discuss rural affairs. I wouldn’t be familiar with the crossing if she didn’t live here nearby. Translation by B. Pasternak

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Pipe

Your pipe lies in the dust, And I can’t raise my eyes. The wind died down, the light went out in the distance. The hour of misfortune has come! The fight calls the wrestlers to battle, and orders the singers to sing! Choose your path quickly! Destiny awaits everywhere. An empty fearlessness pipe is lying in the dust. In the evening I walked to the chapel, holding flowers to my chest. I wanted to find reliable shelter from the storm of existence. I was exhausted from wounds in my heart. And I thought that the time would come, And the stream would wash away the dirt from me, And I would become clean... But your pipe lay across my roads. The light flashed, illuminating the altar, the altar and the darkness, a garland of tuberoses, as of old, now I will weave to the gods. From now on I will end the long-standing war and greet silence. Perhaps I’ll repay the debt to heaven... But the silent trumpet calls again (in a minute turning one into a slave). Touch me quickly with the magic stone of youth! Let the delight of my soul shed its light, rejoicing! Having pierced the chest of black darkness, Throwing a call into the heavens, Awakening bottomless horror In the land that is dressed in darkness, Let the warrior sing the tune of the Trumpet of your victories! And I know, I know, that sleep will leave my eyes. In the chest - as in the month of srabon - Streams of water roar. Someone will come running to my call, Someone will cry bitterly, The night bed will tremble - A terrible fate! Today the Great Trumpet sounds in joy. I wanted to ask for peace, I found only shame. Put on armor to cover your entire body from now on. Let the new day threaten with disaster, I will remain myself. May the grief given by you come to triumph. And I will forever be with the trumpet of your fearlessness! Translation by A. Akhmatova

* * *

It's a terrible time! How stuffy the evenings are! I languish in the midday heat, I don’t sleep in the silence of the night. The cruelty of the sun is fatally generous. Here the dove is barely alive, not itself from thirst, In the withered grove it has been lamenting since the morning. I overcame my fear, I knew: the time would come - And you would pour like a shower from a distant height To the soul that is oppressed by the heat. Translation by M. Petrovykh

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

In a hundred years

In the future, a hundred years from now, Who will you be, Reader of the poems left from me? In the future, a hundred years from today, will they be able to convey a part of my sunrises, the boiling of my blood, and the singing of birds, and the joy of spring, and the freshness of the flowers given to me, and strange dreams, and rivers of love? Will songs save me in the future, a hundred years from now? I don’t know, and yet, friend, open that door that faces south; sit down by the window, and then, covering the distance with the haze of dreams, remember what in the past, exactly a hundred years before you, a restless, jubilant trembling, leaving the abyss of heaven, came to the heart of the earth, warming it with greetings. And then, freed from its fetters by the arrival of spring, the intoxicated, maddened, most impatient Wind in the world, carrying pollen and the smell of flowers on its wings, the South Wind flew in and made the earth bloom. In the past, exactly a hundred years before you. The day was sunny and wonderful. With a soul full of songs, a poet came into the world then, He wanted words to bloom like flowers, And love to warm like sunlight, In the past, exactly a hundred years before you. In the future, a hundred years from now, the poet singing new songs will bring greetings from me to your house And today’s young spring, So that the spring stream of my song merges, ringing, With the beating of your blood, with the buzzing of your bumblebees And with the rustling of leaves, what beckons me into the future, a hundred years from now. Translation by A. Sendyk Translation by A. Akhmatova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

Young tribe

O young, o daring tribe, Always in dreams, in crazy dreams; By fighting what has become obsolete, you are ahead of time. In the bloody hour of dawn in their native land, Let everyone talk about his own things, - Having despised all arguments, in the heat of intoxication, Fly into space, throwing off the burden of doubts! Grow, O wild earthly tribe! The irrepressible wind shakes the cage. But our house is empty, there is silence in it. Everything is motionless in the secluded room. A decrepit bird sits on a perch, its tail is lowered and its beak is tightly closed, motionless, like a statue, sleeping; Time stood still in her prison. Grow, stubborn earthly tribe! The blind do not see that spring is in nature: The river roars, the dam breaks, and the waves roam free. But the children of the inert earth are dozing and do not want to walk in the dust, - They sit on rugs, withdrawn into themselves; They remain silent, covering their crowns from the sun. Grow, troubled earthly tribe! Indignation will break out among the stragglers. The rays of spring will disperse dreams. “What a misfortune!” - they will cry out in confusion. Your mighty blow will strike them. They will jump out of bed, in blind rage, Armed, and rush into battle. Truth will fight with lies, sun with darkness. Grow, mighty earthly tribe! The altar of the goddess of slavery is in front of us. But the hour will strike - and he will fall! Madness, invade, sweeping away everything in the temple! The banner will fly, a whirlwind will rush around, Your laughter will split the skies like thunder. Break the vessel of errors - everything in it, Take for yourself - oh joyful burden! Grow, earthly insolent tribe! Having renounced the world, I will become free! Open up space before me, I will move forward tirelessly. Many obstacles and sorrows await me, And my heart rushes in my chest. Give me firmness, dispel doubts, - Let the scribe set off on the journey with everyone. Grow, O free earthly tribe! O eternal youth, always be with us! Cast off the dust of centuries and the rust of shackles! Sow the world with seeds of immortality! In thunderclouds there is a swarm of ardent lightning, The earthly world is full of green hops, And you will place a garland of a bottle on me in the spring - the time is near. Grow, immortal earthly tribe! Translation by E. Birukova

Rabindranath Tagore. Favorites. School library. Translation from Bengali. Moscow: Education, 1987.

* * *

I love my sandy shore, Where in the lonely autumn Storks build their nests, Where the flowers bloom snow-white, And flocks of geese from cold countries find shelter in winter. Here, herds of lazy turtles bask in the gentle sun. In the evenings, fishing boats Sail here... I love my sandy shore, Where in the lonely autumn Storks build their nests. You love the forest thickets on your shore - Where there is a tangle of branches, Where unsteady shadows sway, Where the nimble snake of the path bends around the trunks as it runs, And above it the bamboo waves a hundred green hands, And there is coolness around the semi-darkness, And silence all around... There on at dawn and towards evening, Passing through shady groves, women gather near the pier, And children float rafts on the water until dark... You love forest thickets On your shore - Where there is a tangle of branches, Where unsteady shadows sway. And between us the river flows - Between you and me - And hums an endless song along the banks with its wave. I'm lying on the sand on my deserted shore. You walked on your side through the cool groves to the river with a jug. We listen to the river song for a long time with you together. You hear a different song on your shore than I do on mine... The river flows between us, Between you and me, And hums an endless song along the banks with its wave.

Rabindranath Tagore. Favorites. School library. Translation from Bengali. Moscow: Education, 1987.

* * *

I'm circling through the forests like crazy. Like a musk deer, I find no peace, driven by its smell. Oh, falgun night! - everything rushes past: And the south wind, and the dope of spring. What goal beckoned me in the darkness?.. What am I striving for - madness and deception, And what is given itself is not nice to me. And desire burst out of my chest. Sometimes it darts far ahead, sometimes it grows up like an ever-present guard, sometimes it circles around me like a night mirage. Now the whole world is drunk with my desire, But I don’t remember what made me drunk... What I strive for is madness and deception, And what is given itself is not nice to me. Alas, my pipe has gone mad: It is crying on its own, it is raging on its own, The frantic sounds have gone mad. I catch them, stretch out my hands... But a measured order is not given to a madman. I rush through the sea of ​​sounds without a helm... What I strive for is madness and deception, And what is given itself is not nice to me. Translation by V. Markova

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

* * *

A crowd of dark blue clouds appeared, asharkhom Vedas O ma. Don't leave the house today! Torrents of rain washed away the land and flooded the rice fields. And beyond the river there is darkness and the roar of thunder. You hear someone calling the ferryman, the voice sounds unfamiliar. It's already getting dark, there won't be a ferry today. The wind is noisy on the empty shore, the waves are noisy as they run, - The wave is driven by the wave, pressed, drawn... It’s already getting dark, there will be no ferry today. Do you hear a cow mooing at the gate, it’s high time for her to go to the barn. A little more and it will become dark. Look if those who were in the fields in the morning have returned - it’s time for them to return. The shepherd forgot about the flock - it wanders at random. A little more and it will become dark. Don't go out, don't leave the house! Evening has fallen, there is moisture and languor in the air. There is a dank darkness on the way, it’s slippery to walk along the shore. Look how the bamboo bowl cradles the evening slumber. Translation by M. Petrovykh

Rabindrat Tagore. Lyrics. Moscow, "Fiction", 1967.

“Every child comes into the world with the news that God has not yet given up on people.”
R. Tagore

Dear friends and guests of the “Music of the Soul” blog!

Today I want to dwell on the work of an amazing person. Few people are given the difficult skill of living. This skill was fully mastered by the wonderful Indian writer, inspired lyricist, novelist, short story writer, playwright, composer, founder of two universities - Rabindranath Tagore. For the Belgalese, Rabindranath Tagore is not only a great poet, not only an example of a wonderful way of life, but also an integral part of their own lives. They grow up with Tagore's language on their lips, and often give vent to their best feelings in his own words, in his own poetry. His life was unusually rich, rich in events not only external, but also internal, spiritual.

Rabindranath Tagore was born in 1861 into a family known throughout the then Bengal. He was the youngest of 14 children. His grandfather Dvorkonath possessed truly fabulous wealth. He owned indigo factories, coal mines, sugar and tea plantations, and huge estates.

Father Debendronath, nicknamed Maharshi (Great Sage), played an important role in awakening the national consciousness of Indians. Tagore's many brothers and sisters were endowed with diverse talents. In this family there reigned an atmosphere of artistry, humanity, mutual respect, an atmosphere in which all talents flourished.

Rabindranath Tagore in 1873

Rabindranath Tagore began writing poetry at the age of 8. The only merit of these first experiments, he later jokingly wrote, was that they were lost. Tagore's mother died when he was 14 years old. Having lost his mother, the boy began to lead a secluded life, the echoes of this loss passed through his entire life.

Sarada Devip (Tagore's mother)

Remembrance
I never remember my mother
And only sometimes when I run out
Go outside to play with the boys,
Some kind of melody suddenly
Takes possession of me, I don’t know where I was born,
And it seems to me as if this is my mother
She came to me and merged with my game.
She's rockingcradlemine,
Perhaps she hummed this song,
But everything is gone, and mom is no more,
And my mother’s song disappeared.

I never remember my mother.
But in the month of Ashshin, among the jasmine thickets
As soon as it begins to dawn,
And the wind is humid and smells of flowers,
And the wave splashes quietly,
Memories rise in my soul,
And she appears to me.
It’s true, mom often brought
Flowers to offer prayers to the gods;
Isn’t that why mom’s fragrance
I hear it every time I enter the temple?

I never remember my mother.
But, looking from the bedroom window
To a world that cannot be grasped with one's gaze,
To the blue of the sky, I feel that again
She looks into my eyes
With an attentive and gentle gaze,
Just like in the golden times
When you put me on your knees,
She looked into my eyes.
And then her gaze was imprinted on me,
And he closed the heavens from me.

Tagore with his wife Mrinalini Devi (1883)

At 22, R. Tagore gets married. And he becomes the father of five children.
There is love that floats freely across the sky. This love warms the soul.
And there is love that dissolves in everyday affairs. This love brings warmth tofamily.

Rabindranath Tagore with his eldest son and daughter

The first collection of poems, “Evening Songs,” that was published, glorified the young poet. Since that time, collections of poems, stories, novels, dramas, articles have come out from his pen in a continuous stream - one can only be amazed at the inexhaustible power of his genius.

In 1901, the poet and his family moved to the family estate near Calcutta and opened a school with five associates, for which he sold the copyright to publish his books.
A year later, his beloved wife dies; he took this death very hard.

When I don’t see you in my dreams,
It seems to me that he is whispering spells
The ground to disappear under your feet.
And cling to the empty sky,
Raising my hands, I want in horror...
(translation by A. Akhmatova)

But the misfortunes did not end there. The next year, one of the daughters died of tuberculosis, and in 1907, the youngest son died of tuberculosis.

You want to change everything, but your efforts are in vain:
Everything remains exactly the same. as before.
If you destroy all sorrows, soon
Recent joys will turn into sorrows

In 1912, Rabindranath Tagore left for the USA with his eldest son, stopping in London. Here he showed his poems to his friend the writer William Rothenstein. Tagore becomes famous in England and America.
The awarding of the Nobel Prize to Tagore in 1913, recognition of his undeniable merits, was greeted with the greatest jubilation throughout Asia.
R. Tagore never in his life, even in the most difficult moments, lost his inescapable optimism, faith in the inevitable final triumph of good over evil.

In a crevice in the wall, in the cool of the night,
The flower blossomed. He did not please anyone's views.
His rootless, squalor is reproached
And the sun says: “How are you, brother?”

His favorite image is a flowing river: sometimes the small river Kopai, sometimes the full-flowing Padma, and sometimes the all-enthralling flow of time and space. This is how we see his work: rich, varied, nourishing...

His creativity emanates a light that helps one find oneself. In ancient India, the poet was looked upon as a “rishi” - a prophet leading among people. At almost 70 years old, Rabindranath Tagore discovered painting. And the following years devoted himself to drawing.
“The morning of my life was full of songs, may the sunset of my days be full of colors,” said Tagore. He left behind not only thousands of beautiful lines, but also about 2 thousand paintings and drawings.

He did not study painting, but painted as his heart felt. His impulse paintings are written quickly, with inspiration and confidence. This is an outburst of emotions on paper. “I succumbed to the spell of the lines...” he said later. Tagore used ornate patterns to fill in the crossed out spaces on the pages of his manuscripts. As a result, these patterns resulted in paintings that inspired many young artists to create, and a new movement in art appeared in India.

His exhibitions were held in many countries around the world; they captivated people with their sincerity and originality and sold well. Tagore invested money from the sale of paintings into the creation of a university.
Now his paintings can most often be found in private collections. In 2010, a collection of 12 paintings by Rabindranath Tagore was sold for $2.2 million.
The poet is the author of the lyrics of the anthems of Bangladesh and India.

In this sunny world I don't want to die
I would like to live in this foreverbloomingforest,
Where people leave and come back again
Where hearts beat and flowers collect dew.

Throughout his life he maintained that your feet should touch the ground and your head should go to the sky. Only in the interaction of everyday and spiritual life can a person count on the success of his inner search.

At a late hour, the one who wished to renounce the world said:
“Today I will go to God, my house has become a burden to me.
Who kept me at my threshold with witchcraft?”
God told him: “I am.” The man didn't hear him.
In front of him on the bed, breathing serenely in his sleep,
The young wife clutched the baby to her chest.
“Who are they, creatures of Maya?” – the man asked.
God told him: “I am.” The man did not hear anything.
The one who wanted to leave the world stood up and shouted: “Where are you, god?»
God told him: “Here.” The man didn't hear him.
The child fussed, cried in his sleep, and sighed.
God said, “Come back.” But no one heard him.
God sighed and exclaimed: “Alas! Have it your way, so be it.
Just where will you find me if I stay here?
(translation by V. Tushnova)

Tagore considered personality to be the highest value and was himself the embodiment of a complete man. The word for him was not a unit of information or description, but a call and a message. Throughout his long life, with amazing harmony, Rabindranath Tagore united in his work the contradictions between spirit and flesh, man and society, between the search for truth and the enjoyment of beauty. And he felt beauty with a subtlety characteristic of only a few. And with high, noble inspiration he knew how to recreate it in his lyrical poems, which may be the best of all that he has written.

Something from light touches, something from vague words, -
This is how chants arise - a response to a distant call.
Champak in the middle of the spring cup,
pour into the blaze of bloom
Sounds and colors will tell me, -
This is the way of inspiration.
Something will appear in an instant burst,
Visions in the soul - without number, without counting,
But something went away, ringing - you can’t catch the tune.
This is how minute follows minute - the chiming ringing of bells.
(translationM. Petrovykh)

For modern Bengali literature, Tagore is still a beacon by which to navigate. Tagore's timeless poetry is becoming increasingly popular. Just as Mahatma Gandhi is called the father of the Indian nation, Rabindranath Tagore can rightly be called the father of Indian literature. Tagore experienced old age of the body, but not old age of the soul. And in this unfading youth is the secret of the longevity of his memory.

Poems and quotes by Rabindranath Tagore

Someone built a house for themselves -
So mine was destroyed.
I made a truce -
Someone went to war.
If I touched the strings -
Somewhere their ringing stopped.
The circle closes there,
Where does it begin?

***
Slam before mistakesdoor.
The truth is in confusion: “How will I enter now?”

“O fruit! O fruit! - the flower screams.
Tell me, where do you live, my friend?”
“Well,” the fruit laughs, “look:
I live inside you.”

* * *
“Isn’t it you,” I once asked fate, “
Are you pushing me so mercilessly in the back?”
She croaked with an evil grin:
“Your past is driving you.”

* * *
Respondsechoto everything he hears around:
It does not want to be anyone's debtor.

* * *
The little one woke up -flower. And suddenly appeared
The whole world is in front of him, like a huge beautiful flower garden.
And so he said to the universe, blinking in amazement:
“As long as I live, live too, my dear.”

***
The flower withered and decided: “Trouble,
Springleft the world forever"

***
The cloud that the winter winds
They drove across the sky on an autumn day,
He looks with eyes full of tears,
Like it's about to exploderain.

***
You couldn't even handle it
What came naturally.
How will you cope when you receive
Everything you want?

Rabindranath Tagore had a positive attitude towards communist ideology, while at the same time maintaining friendly relations with Benito Mussolini. Anna Akhmatova, in particular, was involved in translating his poems into Russian, but many of his works were available only to Bengali-speaking readers for a long time.

Rabindranath Tagore was born in 1861 in the north of Calcutta into a noble family of large landowners. Rabindranath's brothers were philosophers, mathematicians, musicians and painters. Tagore studied at school, but to all his lessons he preferred walks around the neighborhood. His school education replaced home education - he mastered arithmetic, geometry, and had a good knowledge of history, Sanskrit and English. An important role in the formation of Tagore as a writer was played by the fact that he received not a classical English upbringing, but his native “Bengali” one.

Rabindranath Tagore at age 13. (liveinternet.ru)

Rabindranath Tagore began writing poetry at the age of 8. The only advantage of these first works, as the author later noted, was that they were lost. Tagore's mother died when he was 14 years old. The loss of his mother affected the entire work of Tagore.

Sharada Devi, mother of Rabindranath Tagore. (liveinternet.ru)

At a young age, Tagore wrote the story “The Beggar Woman,” which became the first story in the Bengali language. By the early 1880s, Rabindranath Tagore began publishing poetry collections - Evening Songs and Morning Songs.

Rabindranath Tagore. (jagermeister.ru)

At the age of 17, Rabindranath Tagore moved to live with relatives in England, where he entered University College London. He never received an academic degree, but during the time he spent in England, he was able to become well acquainted with European literature. Since the 1890s, already in his native Bengal, the most productive stage of Rabindranath Tagore’s work begins.

In 1913, Tagore won the Nobel Prize in Literature, after which he began to be actively translated, including into Russian. Rabindranath Tagore's serious health problems began in 1937: he lay in a coma for a long time. Tagore died after a long illness on August 7, 1941.

"Toward Civilization"

Give us back the forest. Take your city, full of noise and smoky haze.

Take your stone, iron, fallen trunks.

Modern civilization! Soul Eater!

Give us back shade and coolness in the sacred silence of the forest.

These evening baths, the sunset light over the river,

A herd of cows grazing, the quiet songs of the Vedas,

Handfuls of grains, herbs, return clothes from the bark,

Conversation about the great truths that we always had in our souls,

These days that we spent were immersed in reflection.

I don’t even need royal pleasures in your prison.

I want freedom. I want to feel like I'm flying again

I want the strength to return to my heart again.

I want to know that the shackles are broken, I want to break the chains.

I want to feel the eternal trembling of the heart of the universe again.

Rabindranath Tagore is a famous Indian poet, writer, playwright, artist, philosopher and social activist. This man left an indelible mark in the hearts of many generations not only of the people of India, but also of the people of all countries of the world. He was born into a very rich family, people inclined to art. All of his siblings also contributed to various fields of art. Rabindranath Tagore's wife, as well as two of his children, died at a young age.

Since childhood, Rabindranath has been searching for the meaning of life. One day his gaze fell on a page torn from a book with a shloka [Sanskrit epic verse] that God is the source of happiness, and that a person should not strive for material benefits and wealth in order to comprehend the truth. This incident served as an inspiration for Tagore's literary work. It is believed that in the middle of his life, spiritual enlightenment descended on the poet.

In 1905, Rabindranath Tagore brought glory to India by becoming the first non-European Nobel Prize laureate. His most famous literary work is called Gitanjali*. Later, he traveled all over the world, including China and Russia, meeting great personalities such as Mahatma Gandhi, with whom he had much in common, despite some, albeit superficial, differences on issues of nationalism, cultural exchange, patriotism, economics, etc. d. The poet had a 40-year friendship with Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of India, who had the honorary title of pandit (scholar). The dialogue between Albert Einstein and Rabindranath Tagore formed the basis of a book on the philosophy of higher matters entitled “On the Nature of Reality.” Rabindranath Tagore is also the author of the national anthem of India, and his song “Amar Sonar Bangla” became the national anthem of Bangladesh. In 1918, he founded the Visva-Bharati University using his bonus money. In this educational institution, education is conducted according to a system of individual approach to each student.

Apart from his literary activities, Rabindranath Tagore managed his family estates, thereby getting closer to the people and learning about their needs and requirements. He subsequently became a key figure in the Bengal Renaissance. He began his journey as a romantic poet and turned into a guiding light for people from various walks of life.

Below are some of his poems and aphorisms.

LIFE IS PRECIOUS
I know that this vision will one day come to an end.
For my heavy eyelids the last sleep will fall.
And the night, as always, will come, and shine in the bright rays
In the awakened universe, morning will come again.
The game of life will continue, noisy as always,
Joy or misfortune will appear under every roof.
Today with such thoughts I look at the earthly world,
A greedy curiosity controls me today.
My eyes do not see anything insignificant anywhere,
Every inch of land seems priceless to me.
Every little thing is dear and necessary to the heart,
The soul - useless itself - has no price anyway!
I need everything I had and everything I didn't have
And what I once rejected, what I couldn’t see.

Translation by V. Tushnova

ALL DESTRUCTION
The final misfortune reigns everywhere.
She filled the whole world with sobs,
I flooded everything like water with suffering.
And lightning among the clouds is like a furrow.
On the distant shore the thunder does not want to cease,
The wild madman laughs again and again,
Uncontrollably, without shame.
The final misfortune reigns everywhere.

Life is now drunk with the revelry of death,
The moment has come - and check yourself.
Give her everything, give her everything
And don't look back in despair,
And don’t hide anything anymore,
Bowing your head to the ground.
There was no trace of peace left.
The final misfortune reigns everywhere.

We must choose the road now:
The fire at your bed has gone out,
The house was lost in the pitch darkness,
A storm has burst inside and is raging within him,
The structure is stunning to its core.
Can't you hear the loud call
Your country, floating to nowhere?
The final misfortune reigns everywhere.

Shame on you! And stop unnecessary crying!
Don’t hide your face from horror!
Do not pull the edge of the sari over your eyes.
Why is there a storm in your soul?
Are your gates still locked?
Break the castle! Go away! Will disappear soon
And joys and sorrows forever.
The final misfortune reigns everywhere.

Will your voice really hide your glee?
Is it really in a dance, in a menacing swaying
The bracelets on your feet won't sound?
The game with which you bear the seal—
Fate itself. Forget what happened before!
Come in blood red clothes,
How did you come as a bride then?
Everywhere, everywhere - the last trouble.

Translation by A. Akhmatova

Oh, I know they will pass
My days will pass
And some year in the early evening
The dimmed sun, bidding farewell to me,
Smile at me sadly
In one of the last minutes.
The flute will sound drawn out along the road,
A steep-horned ox will graze peacefully near the creek,
A child will run around the house,
The birds will start their songs.
And the days will pass, my days will pass.

I ask for one thing,
I beg you for one thing:
Let me find out before I leave
Why was I created?
Why did you call me?
Green earth?
Why did the silence of the night force me
Listen to the sound of star speeches,
Why, why did you care?
Soul the radiance of the day?
That's what I'm begging for.

When my days are done
The earthly term will end,
I want my song to be heard to the end,
So that a clear, sonorous note crowns it.
For life to bear fruit,
Like a flower
I want that in the radiance of this life
I saw your bright appearance,
So that your wreath
I could put it on you
When the deadline ends.
Translation by V. Tushnova

Oh, the unity of mind, spirit and mortal flesh!
The mystery of life, which is in an eternal cycle.

For centuries it has not been interrupted, full of fire,
In the sky there is a magical game of starry nights and days.
The universe embodies its worries in the oceans,
In the steep rocks there is severity, tenderness in the dawns
crimson.

A web of existences moving everywhere,
Everyone feels like magic and miracle within themselves.
Sometimes unknown waves rush through the soul
fluctuations, fluctuations
Each one contains the eternal universe within itself.

The bed of union with the ruler and creator,
I carry the immortal throne of the deity in my heart.
Oh, boundless beauty! O king of earth and heaven!
I was created by you as the most wonderful of miracles.

Translation by N. Stefanovich

Indian, you will not sell your pride,
Let the huckster look at you insolently!
He came from the West to this region,—
But don’t take off your light scarf.
Walk firmly on your path,
Without listening to false, empty speeches.

Treasures hidden in your heart
They will decorate a humble house with dignity,
The forehead is clothed with an invisible crown,
The dominion of gold sows evil,
There are no limits to unbridled luxury
But don’t be embarrassed, don’t fall on your face!
Through your poverty you will become rich,
Peace and freedom will inspire the spirit.

Translation by N. Stefanovich

RENUNCIATION

At a late hour, who wished to renounce the world
said:
“Today I will go to God, my house has become a burden to me.
Who kept me at my threshold with witchcraft?"
God told him: “I am.” The man didn't hear him.
In front of him on the bed, breathing serenely in his sleep,
The young wife clutched the baby to her chest.
"Who are they, creatures of Maya?" - asked the man.
God told him: “I am.” The man did not hear anything.
The one who wanted to leave the world stood up and shouted: “Where are you,
deity?"
God told him: “Here.” The man didn't hear him.
The child fussed, cried in his sleep, and sighed.
God said, "Come back." But no one heard him.
God sighed and exclaimed: “Alas! Be it your way,
let be.
Just where will you find me if I stay here?

Translation by V. Tushnova

TO CIVILIZATION

Give us back the forest. Take your city, full of noise and smoky haze.
Take your stone, iron, fallen trunks.
Modern civilization! Soul Eater!
Give us back shade and coolness in the sacred silence of the forest.
These evening baths, the sunset light over the river,
A herd of cows grazing, the quiet songs of the Vedas,
Handfuls of grains, herbs, return clothes from the bark,
Conversation about the great truths that we always had in our souls,
These days that we spent were immersed in reflection.
I don’t even need royal pleasures in your prison.
I want freedom. I want to feel like I'm flying again
I want the strength to return to my heart again.
I want to know that the shackles are broken, I want to break the chains.
I want to feel the eternal trembling of the heart of the universe again.

Translation by V. Tushnova

I'm circling through the forests like crazy.
Like a musk deer, I can’t find it
Peace, driven by its smell.
Oh, falgun night! - everything rushes past:
And the south wind and the dope of spring.
What goal beckoned me in the darkness?..

And desire burst out of my chest.
It rushes far ahead,
Then he grows up to be an obsessive guardian,
It circles me like a night mirage.
Now the whole world is drunk with my desire,
But I don’t remember what got me drunk...
What I strive for is madness and deception,
And what is given on its own is not nice to me.

Alas, my pipe has gone crazy:
She cries on her own, she rages on her own,
The frantic sounds went crazy.
I catch them, hold out my hands...
But a measured system is not given to a madman.
I rush through the sea of ​​sounds without a helm...
What I strive for is madness and deception,
And what is given on its own is not nice to me.

Translation by V. Markova

“How can I understand what you’re talking about the sea?”
There’s one question I always ask.”
“What does—oh mountain—your silence mean?”
“Its meaning is non-response.”

“Even though the misfortune is bitter, be your soul strong,
Heed the eternal call,
Conquer your fear and fall to dust
The hardships of the earth."

“You are mine,” the authorities told the world.
The world has turned the throne into a prison of power.
Love told the world: “I am yours.”
The world became her free home.”

“Isn’t it you,” I once asked fate, “
Are you pushing me so mercilessly in the back?”
She croaked with an evil grin:
“Your past is driving you.”

The arrow rejoiced: “I am as free as a bird.
And the onion, my master, is languishing in captivity.”
But the bow grinned: “Remember, arrow:
You have found freedom in my captivity.”

Aphorisms of R. Tagore

“The great goes with the small without fear, the average stays away.”

“The sparrow feels sorry for the peacock because he has such a heavy tail.”

“Stars are not afraid of being mistaken for fireflies.”

“Who is here to continue my work?” asked the setting sun.
“I will do everything, my lord,” answered the clay lamp.”

“People are cruel, but man is kind.”

“The world kissed my soul with suffering, demanding that I answer it with songs.”

“Untruth, while growing into power, will never grow into truth.”

“Tearing off the petals of a flower will not give you its beauty.”

“They hated and killed, and people praised them.”

“Weigh down a bird’s wings with gold and it will never soar in the sky again.”

“When any one religion has the pretension to force all mankind to accept its doctrine, it becomes a tyranny.”

“The water in the vessel is transparent. The water in the sea is dark. Little truths have clear words; great truth has great silence.”

“Oh dust! By depriving yourself of purity, aren’t you staining yourself?”

“It is not the blows of the hammer, but the dance of the water that brings the pebbles to perfection.”

“The Prelude of Night begins in the music of Sunset, in its solemn Hymn to the unknown darkness.”

“A man is worse than a beast when he is a beast.”

“We go into the midst of a noisy crowd in order to drown out the cry of our own conscience.”

“I came to your shore as a stranger; I lived in your house as a guest; I leave you as a friend, O my Earth.”

“God wants the temple to be erected out of love and compassion. Why do people, bowing to the Gods, build stone buildings?

“We slam the door on mistakes.
The truth is in confusion: “How will I enter now?”

TAGORE, RABINDRANATH(Thakur, Robindronath) (1861–1941) - Indian writer and public figure, poet, musician, artist. Winner of the 1913 Nobel Prize in Literature. He wrote in Bengali.

Born in Calcutta on May 6, 1861 into a famous and wealthy Brahman family, where he was the fourteenth child. His father often made pilgrimages to holy places in India. The mother died when her son was 14 years old. As a child, he led a secluded life, read a lot, and wrote poetry from the age of eight. He was first educated at home, then studied at private schools, including the Eastern Seminary of Calcutta, a teacher training school and the Bengal Academy, where he studied Bengali history and culture. During a trip with his father to northern India in 1873, he was greatly impressed by the beauty of this region and the richness of the centuries-old cultural heritage of the Indian people.

In 1875 he began to publish - he wrote in Bengali. Tagore's epic poem was published in 1878 The poet's story - his first major work .

In 1878–1880 he lived in England, studied law at University College London, and studied music and literature. Without receiving a diploma, he returned to Calcutta. Here he tries himself in music - in musical drama The genius of Valmiki(1881) Indian national melodies are combined with Irish folk tunes.

In 1883 he married Mrinalini Devi, they subsequently had two sons and three daughters.

Tagore's poetry collections are published Evening songs(1882), Morning songs(1883), Pictures and songs(1884),Sharps and flats(1886), drama Nature's Retribution(1884). Early works are permeated with pantheistic motifs and life-affirming moods. In historical novels Bibhi Coast(1883) And Raja Sage(1885) condemns tyranny. In 1884–1911 secretary of the religious reform society Brahmo Samaj, who opposed caste remnants and sacrifices.

Since 1891, Tagore has been the manager of his father's family estate in Shilaidekho in East Bengal. He becomes more familiar with the way of life of the common people, whose representatives are increasingly becoming the heroes of his works. Tagore's best stories and poetic cycles date back to this time. In collections 1893–1900 Manoshi (1890), Golden Rook (1894),Harvesting (1896),grains (1899) rural landscapes and folk customs are glorified. The image of the Golden Boat - a symbol of human life in the flow of time - is also found in Tagore's subsequent works. The upbeat romantic style of early works gradually changes to a calmer one. Against the background of pictures of colonial life, the image of a fighter against injustice appears - Light and shade (1894).

Writes a cycle of philosophical dramas, opening with a play Raja and Rani(1889). Edits a literary and social magazine Shadhoda, where most of his works were published. The evolution of ideological and aesthetic views leads Tagore to the humanistic concept of “jibandebot” - “deity of life”, which goes back to the Upanishads and the ideals of the medieval Vaishnava poets.

In 1901 he moved to the family estate of Shantinekiton near Calcutta, where he opened a school with five teachers. To do this, his wife had to sell some of the jewelry, and he himself had to sell the copyright to publish his works. Combines teaching with literature studies. He writes not only poetry - a collection Moments(1900), but also novels Grain of sand(1902),Crash(1905), story Destroyed Nest(1903), books on Indian history, textbooks and articles on pedagogy. His works contain the theme of the fight against tyranny; he examines the conflicts between feudal family morality and democratic tendencies.

In the early 1900s, in connection with the death of loved ones - his wife, daughter, son, father - he wrote poetry collections riddled with grief Memory(1902),Child (1903), Ferry (1906).

After the partition of Bengal in 1905, the national liberation movement began to rise in the country. Tagore becomes one of its leaders, publishes the socio-political magazine “Bhandar”, writes patriotic songs. When a movement goes beyond nonviolent action, it turns to educational activities. This period is reflected in the novel Mountain(1907–1910) - in it, Tagore calls for the unity of all Indians, regardless of religion or caste. In drama Retribution(1909) anticipates the movement of non-cooperation with the colonial authorities. Satirical play The fortress of conservatism(1911) castigates the conformity of a society steeped in rigid Hindu traditions.

While accompanying his eldest son to study at the Agricultural College of the University of Illinois in the USA, Tagore stopped in London, where he showed his poems in his own translation from Bengali into English to the painter and writer William Rothenstein, whom he had met a year earlier in India. In 1912, with the assistance of Rothenstein, a collection was published in the Indian Society Sacrificial songs(Gitanjali) with a foreword by Yeats, and in 1913 - a collection of short stories in English Suffering stones. This is how Tagore’s work became known in England and the USA. In 1912–1913 he visited Great Britain and the USA, giving lectures on Indian philosophy and culture.

In 1913, he, a writer who “brings together the world of East and West,” was awarded the Nobel Prize for “deeply felt, original and beautiful poems, in which his poetic thinking was expressed with exceptional skill.” Tagore donated the cash prize to his Visva-Bharati school, which he conceived as a center for the study of Indian culture, which became a free-tuition university after the First World War.

Impressions from a trip to the West and the events of the First World War were reflected in the poetic cycle flight of cranes(1914–1916), which sounds alarm for the fate of humanity. In the novel Home and world(1915–1916) shows the differences between the liberal wing of the leadership of the people's liberation movement and the peasantry, attempts to use the movement to incite chauvinism and religious-communal fanaticism.

Beginning in the 1920s, over the next 30 years he traveled to Europe, the USA, South America, and the Middle East. The results of the First World War and his own impressions of post-war Europe were reflected in his journalistic works. In the book Nationalism(translated into Russian in 1922) he warns about the militaristic essence of chauvinism in the West and East. Full of reflections on social problems, a lyrical collection Eastern tune(1925), allegorical dramas Released thread (1922), Red oleanders(1924).

In 1930 he visited the USSR, in Letters about Russia(1931) highly appreciated the achievements of the USSR in the field of education and the policy of the Soviet state in the international arena.

From the late 1920s, Tagore's views became more radical. Responding to the rise of the national liberation movement of 1929–1934, the novel Four parts(1934), he raises the question of the legitimacy of violence as a means of social struggle. Prose of these years - psychological stories Two sisters(1933),Flower garden(1934). IN The story of a Muslim woman a red thread runs through the warning about the dangers of religious-communal fanaticism.

Poetry collections Mohua(1929),Voice of the Forest(1931),Completion (1932),Again (1932),Motley (1933),Last octave(1935) are contemplative in nature. Tagore - author of numerous plays - Sacrifice (1890),Mail(1912), etc., popular lyrical songs based on their own texts.

At the age of 68, he began to paint, mainly watercolors and drawings. Exhibited in Munich, New York, Paris, Moscow. Tagore's paintings and graphic works, executed in a free manner and contemplative and philosophical in mood, influenced the development of Indian art of the 20th century.

Latest poetry collections – Leaves(1936),At the edge(1938),Evening lamp (1938),Born again (1940),During illness (1940),Recovery(1941),On your birthday(1941),Last verses (1941).

He was awarded honorary degrees from four Indian universities and was an honorary doctorate from Oxford University. In 1915 he received a knighthood, but four years later, after the shooting by British troops of a peaceful demonstration in Amritsar, he refused it.

His works were known in Russia even before the revolution. Tagore’s work was then presented from the angle of fashionable symbolic-theosophical views, his love of life and national color were noted. After the October Revolution, interest in his work did not disappear, since the theme of the national liberation struggle was a relevant direction of Soviet foreign policy, and the fight against age-old prejudices was an internal policy. In the USSR, from 1955 to 1981, 3 collected works of Tagore were published (in 8, 12 and 4 volumes)

Tagore's creative and social activities gave a powerful impetus to the development of not only Bengali, but also Indian culture as a whole. He enriched poetry with new forms and poetic meters, laid the foundations for the genre of short stories, socio-psychological novels, and political lyrics. Indians sing his songs (about 3 thousand of them have been written), without even knowing who their author is. His poem Soul of the people(1911) became the anthem of India.

Publications: Tagore R. Collected works in 4 volumes. M., 1981; Selected works.M., Panorama, 1999.