Reading Tagore

​I wonder, awestruck, what it must be like to read Tagore on the banks of a river. That expanse of water, shimmering in the sun and the gentle breeze, bringing in a sense of calm. I wonder, what it must be to read, to muse, to dream away. To know that I have a few complete days to soak it all in-the sun, the peace and the magic of the word. No clocks, no routine, just the dreamworld. 

It is huge chunks of time like these that really free up the mind; when the thoughts can wander carefree and the memories tip toe in, unbidden. Every little thought and feeling seems intense, painted in myriad colours. 

These moments, frozen in time, are the ones that help me find myself. Every movement is deliberate, born out of choice. The book is a weight in the hands, the rustle of the pages like music to the ears. I notice the ink stains and the hastily scribbled notes in the margins, a bookworm’s version of a link in the text. 

What would it be like to read him, rolling the words about in my mind, wondering what those words would be in Bangla, longing to hear them being said aloud. Would the words find an echo in the lapping of the water? Would the weeds sway to the unheard tune of the flute? Would the dying rays of the sun illuminate the water? Skirting the waves and painting them a reddish orange? Would the sunset bring peace and closure along with the whispers of the next morning’s promise? 

Where time seems to stand still, is where the mind finds itself. 

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