Shantiniketan: The Bolpur School of Rabindranath Tagore

Front matter

THE BOLPUR SCHOOL OF RABINDRANATH TAGORE

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

School song

THE BOLPUR SCHOOL OF RABINDRANATH TAGORE

THE SHANTINIKETAN SCHOOL SONG

By Rabindranath Tagore

Translated from the original Bengali by the Author.

She is our own, the darling of our hearts, the Shantiniketan. Our dreams are rocked in her arms. Her face is a fresh wonder of love every time we see her, For she is our own, the darling of our heart.

In the shadows of her trees we meet, In the freedom of her open sky. Her mornings come and her evenings Bringing down heaven’s kisses, Making us feel anew that she is our own, the darling of our heart.

The stillness of her shades is stirred by the wood- land whisper; Her amlaki groves are aquiver with the rapture of leaves. She dwells in us and around us however far we may wander. She weaves our hearts in a song making us one in music, Tuning our strings of love with her own fingers, And we ever remember that she is our own, the darling of our heart.

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

By Rabindranath Tagore

The greatest teachers in ancient India, whose names are still remembered, were forest-dwellers. By the shady border of some sacred river or Himalayan lake they built their altar of fire, grazed their cattle, harvested wild rice and fruits for their food, lived with their wives and children in the bosom of primeval nature, meditated upon the deepest problems of the soul, and made it their object of life to grow in sympathy with all creation and in communion with the Supreme Being. There students flocked round them and had their lessons of immortal life in the atmosphere of truth, peace and freedom of the spirit.

Though in later ages circumstances changed and numerous kingdoms, great and small, flourished in wealth and power, and forests began to give way to towns with multiplication of luxuries in the homes of the rich, the highest ideals of civilisation in our country ever remained the ideals of those forest sanctuaries. All our great classic poets in their epic verses and dramas looked back with reverence upon that golden daybreak of the awakenment of India's soul.

In the modern time my turn has also come to dream of that age towering above all ages of subsequent history in the greatness of its simplicity and wisdom of pure life. While spending a great part of my youth in the riverside solitude of the sandbanks of the Padma, a time came when I woke up to the call of the spirit of my country and felt impelled to dedicate my life in furthering the purpose that lies in the heart of her history. I seemed choked for breath in the hideous nightmare of our present time, meaningless in its petty ambitions of poverty, and felt in me the struggle of my motherland for awakening in spiritual emancipation. TagorePhilosophyCh4Our endeavours after political agitation seemed to me unreal to the core and pitifully feeble in their utter helplessness. I felt that it is a blessing of providence that begging should be an unprofitable profession and that only to him who hath shall be given. I said to myself that we must seek for our own inheritance and with it buy our true place in the world.

Then came to me a vision of the fulness of the inner man which was attained in India in the solemn seclusion of her forests when the rest of the world was hardly awake. The truth became clear to me that India had cut her path and broadened it for ages, the path that leads to a life reaching beyond death, rising high above the idealisation of political selfishness and the insatiable lust for accumulation of materials. The voice came to me in the Vedic tongue from the ashrams, the forest sanctuaries of the past, with the call—“Come to me as the rivers to the sea, as the days and nights to the completion of their annual cycle. Let our taking and imparting truth be full of the radiance of light. Let us never come into conflict with one another. Let our minds speed towards their supreme good.”

My heart responded to that call and I determined to do what I could to bring to the surface, for our daily use and purification, the stream of ideals that originated in the summit of our past, flowing underground in the depth of India’s soil,—the ideals of simplicity of life, clarity of spiritual vision, purity of heart, harmony with the universe, and consciousness of the infinite personality in all creation.

I knew that the lessons of the modern schools and the tendencies of the present time were aggressively antagonistic to these ideals, but also I was certain that the ancient teachers of India were right when they said with a positive assurance: “It is an absolute death to depart from this life without realising the Eternal Truth of life.”

Thus the exclusiveness of my literary life burst its barriers, coming into touch with the deeper aspirations of my country which lay hidden in her heart. I came to live in the Shantiniketan sanctuary founded by my father and there gradually gathered round me, under the shades of sal trees, boys from distant homes.

This was the time when Satish Chandra Roy, the author of the following little story, felt attracted to me and to my ideas and devoted himself to building up of the ashram and serving the boys with living food from the fulness of his life. He was barely nineteen, but he was born with a luminosity of soul. In him the spirit of renunciation was a natural product of an extraordinary capacity for enjoyment of life. All his student days he had been struggling with poverty—and yet he cheerfully gave up all chances of worldly prospects when they were near at hand and took his place in the ashram because it was truly his by right. He would have needed no recommendation from me, but unfortunately he died young before he had time to fulfil his promise, leaving the record of his greatness only in the memory of his friends.

I cannot but conclude this preface of mine with an extract from my lecture about Shantiniketan where I have described his connection with the ashram.

“Fortunately for me, Satish Chandra Roy, a young student of great promise, who was getting ready for his B.A. degree, became attracted to my school and devoted his life to carrying out my idea. He was barely nineteen but he had a wonderful soul, living in a world of ideas, keenly responsive to all that was beautiful and great in the realm of nature and of the human mind. He was a poet who, if he had lived, would surely have taken his place among the immortals of world-literature, but he died when he was twenty, thus offering his service to our school only for the period of one short year. With him boys never felt that they were confined in the limits of a teaching class, they seemed to have their access to everywhere. They would go with him to the forest when in the spring the sal trees were in full blossom, and he would recite to them his favourite poems, frenzied with excitement. He used to read to them Shakespeare and even Browning—for he was a great lover of Browning—explaining to them in Bengali with his wonderful power of expression. He never had any feeling of distrust for the boys’ capacity of understanding; he would talk and read to them about whatever was the subject in which he himself was interested. He knew that it was not at all necessary for the boys to understand literally and accurately, but that their minds should be roused, and in this he was always successful. He was not like other teachers, a mere vehicle of text-books. He made his teaching personal, he himself was the source of it, and therefore it was made of life-stuff easily assimilable by living human nature. The real reason of his successes was his intense interest in life, in ideas, in everything around him, in the boys who came in contact with him. He had his inspiration not through the medium of books but through the direct communication of his sensitive mind with the world. The seasons had upon him the same effect as they had upon the plants. He seemed to feel in his blood the unseen messages of nature that are always travelling through space, floating in the air, shimmering in the leaves, tingling in the roots of the grass under the earth. The literature that he studied had not the least smell of the library about it. He had the power to see ideas before him, as he could see his friends, with all the distinctness of form and subtlety of life.”

Shantiniketan

SHANTINIKETAN

By W. W. Pearson

The author of the story that follows was so intimately connected with the life of Rabindranath Tagore’s school at Shantiniketan, Bolpur, that in order to understand the spirit of the story which was written for the boys of the ashram and was told them as they sat under the trees in the moonlight, a short account of the School itself seems a fitting introduction.

As our first impressions of a place are often the truest I will begin by an account of my first visit to Bolpur in 1912.

Bolpur is situated about a hundred miles from Calcutta, so that the School is remote from the distractions of town life and yet within easy reach of the stimulating activities of an intellectual centre. When I arrived at the station it was just sunset, the time picturesquely called in Bengal the “cow dust” time, for it is then that the cattle are driven from the fields, and the sun sets behind a golden mist raised by the cows as they slowly make their way across the dusty fields. I was met by one of the masters and four of the older boys who took all my luggage from the carriage and carried it to the cart which was waiting outside the station. They welcomed me very warmly because I had just returned from England, where I had seen their Guru, and as we drove slowly along in the bullock-cart our talk was chiefly about him. As we approached the School, which stands on high ground, so that the lights shine out over the surrounding country, one or two remarks, such as “That is one of his favourite walks” and “Under those trees he often walks on moonlight nights,” gave me the feeling that I was a pilgrim visiting the shrine of a saint rather than a visitor to a school. We became silent then, and no one spoke again till we reached the balcony of the guest house. There I was told the poet had written many of his songs. The evening star had just risen and a crescent moon was shedding its faint light over the tops of the trees with which the School is surrounded. Two of the boys went with me on to the roof, and after sing- ing one of the poet’s songs, left me to spend a quiet evening with the master who had met me at the station. He helped me to realise the true spirit of the place, for he had been one of the five boys who had read in the School when it was first started. After a College course in America he had come back to devote his life to the service of the School to which he owed so much. We talked on about the ideals with which the poet had started the School. The sound of the boys’ voices, as they came back from their evening meal to their dormitories, had ceased, when in the stillness there arose the sound of singing. It was a group of boys who, every evening before they retire to bed, sing one of the poet’s songs. Gradually they approached the house where we were sitting, and as they turned away, the sound receded, getting fainter and fainter until it died out altogether. Then silence descended like shadows on a starlit hill, and I realised why the name “Shantiniketan” had been given to the place. A House of Peace it certainly was.

In the morning, before sunrise, the band of young choristers wakened the sleeping schoolboys to the work of the day by another song.

After an early walk to a neighbouring village,

THE POET'S UPPER ROOM

where some of the older students conduct a night school for the boys of the who are to be found scattered about in the neighbourhood, I attended service in the temple, a building open to the light and air on all sides. As I entered, the boys in their coloured shawls were seated, some on the steps outside, and some on the white marble floor in an attitude of meditation. After an opening prayer in Bengali, the boys, all together, chanted a Sanskrit verse, ending with the words,

"Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti." "Om Peace, Peace, Peace."

To hear for the first time a Sanskrit prayer chanted by the boys of Bolpur is an experience not easily to be forgotten. I wish it were possible to preserve the freshness of one's first impressions, for then the very sound of the prayer would be a constant and never-failing inspiration. I cannot describe the thrill which I felt as I listened to that ascending chant filling the fresh morning air with its solemn notes of youthful aspiration.

In the temple there is no image and no altar, for the Maharshi , who founded the ashram, declared that in Shantiniketan no image was to be worshipped and no abuse of any religious faith was to be allowed. There “the one invisible God is to be worshipped, and such instructions are to be given as are consistent with the worship, the praise,

THE SAL AVENUE

and the contemplation of the Creator and Maintainer of the world, and as are productive of good morals, religious life, and universal brotherhood.”

The service was short, consisting only of the prayers and an address given by one of the teachers, but it was most impressive and devotional in spirit. The clear sunlight streamed through the screen of trees which surround the temple, and outside one could hear the chirping of birds and the distant cooing of doves.

During the day I came to know others of the teachers, and listened to some of the boys singing, for the poet’s songs occupy a large part of the school life. The influence of Mr. , a nephew of the poet’s, who teaches the boys the new songs as they are composed by the poet, is one the effect of which cannot be measured. To be able to spread the spirit of song is a great gift, but when together with it one is able to spread the ideals of a great spiritual teacher then the gift is one precious beyond words.

In the evening, as it was a moonlight night, we went out, boys and teachers as well, to a wood about a mile away from the School. We sat in a circle under the trees and the boys sang. One of the teachers told a story, and I told them about my meeting with the poet in London. Then we walked back across the open country which lay still and quiet under the spell of the Indian moonlight.

The morning I left there was a farewell ceremony according to the ancient Hindu custom when a guest leaves an ashram for the outer world. I was garlanded and a handful of rose petals, together with some grains of paddy and some grass, symbolic of the plenitude and fruitfulness of life, was offered to me, and at the same time one of the teachers pronounced over me the blessing which is found in the Sanskrit “Sakuntala,” and which has been translated by the poet: “Pleasant be thy path with intervals of cool lakes green with the spreading leaves of lotus, and with the shady trees tempering the glare and heat of the sun—let its dust be gentle for you even like the pollen of flowers borne by the calm and friendly breeze—let your path be auspicious.”

That I felt was my dedication to the service of the ashram, and as I left for the station I knew that my life work lay in trying to help to realise the ideals for which the ashram stood. There I knew was an atmosphere in which self was possible and a place where I could feel the throbbing heart of Bengal, the land of poetry and imagination.

Since then I have lived in the ashram, I have got to know the boys and the teachers as my friends for life, I have felt, even when my own spirit has been dull and I have not been able to feel the same inspiration as I hear the boys chanting in the early morning or at sunset, that Shantiniketan is truly an Abode of Peace.

Now that I am away from the ashram for a time my thoughts constantly turn back to it, and I know that under that wide and starry sky, wandering across the open heath which stretches to the horizon on all sides so that one feels as if standing on the roof of the world, there is peace to be found for the restless spirit of man. On nights when the full moon sheds a flood of white peace upon the landscape, one can walk for miles across open country with nothing to obstruct the view except here and there a neat Santal village surrounded by its few cultivated fields, and on the distant line of the horizon a group of tall palm trees standing like the warning forefingers of the guardian spirits of the place, raised against all thoughtless curiosity of outside intrusions. As one lives in this ashram and

BOYS AT AN EXAMINATION

THE SMALL BOYS’ DORMITORIES

absorbs the spirit of its founder, one feels that its stillness and peace are but the reflection of the tranquillity which filled the mind of the Maharshi Devendranath and is so marked a characteristic of the poet. In the evenings and early mornings, just at sunset and sunrise, when the School bell has called the boys to their silent worship, a silence strangely still and beautiful seems to surround the place; and in the early hours of the morning, long before the peep of light in the east, the stillness is so intense that it seems as if time has held its breath in the expectation of the daily wonder of the sunrise.

Does it seem as if this ashram were too remote and monastic for the training of boys who, when they leave school, have to struggle in the modern world? Can we not say rather, that perhaps here they may acquire what the modern world most needs, that wealth of mind's tranquillity which is required to give life its balance when it has to march to its goal through the crowd of distractions? Whatever may be the practical outcome of this experiment in education, which strives to combine the best traditions of the old Hindu system of teaching with the healthiest aspects of modern methods, there can be no doubt that the ideal is a high one. Let me tell more of what these ideals are and how the boys and teachers of the School strive to carry them into practice.

Shantiniketan was originally a bare spot in the middle of open country, and was notorious for being the haunt of dacoits. It was to this spot that Maharshi Devendranath came on one of his journeys, and he was so deeply attracted to the place that he pitched his tent under three trees, which were the only trees then to be seen there, and for weeks at a time would live there spending his time in meditation and prayer. These trees are still to be seen, with the wide open plain stretching out before them to the western horizon, and on the marble slab which marks the place of his meditation can be seen the words which filled his mind as the Maharshi meditated upon God.

He is the repose of my life the joy of my heart, the peace of my spirit.

It is under these trees that the boys sometimes meet when they commemorate the life of the Maharshi, or others whose lives have bound them close to the heart of the ashram. I remember the last meeting which I attended there. It was early morning and the boys were all

EVEN-SONG

seated in the shade of the trees, which were a mass of white blossom overhead. The bright colours of their shawls as the sunlight fell through the interlacing branches contrasted with the white flowers above them, and in perfect silence they waited for the service to begin.

This custom of holding meetings out of doors is characteristic of the School, where all the classes are held under the trees or in the verandahs, excepting during the Rains. The boys often organise some entertainment in the evenings, some circus performance or small play composed by the boys themselves, to which the masters are invited. Just before I left for America the smaller boys had discovered the existence of an imaginary hero named Ladam, and for several days the history of Ladam occupied their minds. Pictures were drawn of his exploits, his heroic deeds, some of them by no means exemplary, were staged for the benefit of their teachers, and every tree and hillock in the neighbourhood of the small boys’ dormitories was made the scene of Ladam’s fights and victories. I was shown an ant-hill and was told that it was the fortress of Ladam, and that the ants were his disciples and followers. Whether, since my last acquaintance with him, Ladam has come to an end of his career of reckless and inconsequential adventures, I know not, but as long as he lived his friends and discoverers were never tired of telling of his deeds and describing with the minutest details his appearance and character. Perhaps his ghost still haunts the corners of the dormitory and the shadow-chequered path of the Sal Avenue.

This characteristic of one side of the School life is vital to the ideals with which the School was started. Education consists, not in giving information which the boys will forget as soon as they conveniently can without danger of failing in their examinations, but in allowing the boys to develop their own characters in the way which is natural to them. The younger the boys are the more original they show themselves to be. It is only when the shadow of a University examination begins to loom over them that they lose their natural freshness and originality, and become candidates for matriculation. When the small boys take up an idea and try to put it into practice then there is always a freshness about it which is spontaneous and full of the joy of real creation. To see them give a circus performance would delight the heart of any man who had not become absolutely blasé.

This ideal of allowing the boys to develop their own characters as much as possible is seen in another institution of the School, namely, the courts constituted by the boys for the punishment of minor offences against the laws which the boys themselves formulate. Most of the discipline of the School is managed by these courts, and although there are doubtless cases of miscarriage of justice, there is no complaint amongst the boys about the judgments pronounced against offenders. In this case as in others, self-government is better than good government. The committees which the boys form are intended to deal with all the aspects of school life in which the boys are themselves vitally interested. On one occasion the boys agreed to carry on all the menial work of the School, cooking and washing up, drawing the water and buying the stores, with the help of the teachers. And although the experiment was only found practicable for about a month, during that time there were no servants employed to do any of this heavy work, and many of the boys worked like Trojans without complaint even though it was the very hottest time of the year.

There are several magazines published monthly by the different sections of the School, most of them in Bengali, which contain stories, poems and essays written by the boys. These are illustrated by those of them who show signs of artistic ability. Though these magazines sometimes languish, and often do not appear for months together, they quicken into life when the anniversary of their birth comes round, and then a grand celebration takes place. One of the dormitories is taken possession of for the occasion, and decorated with the green branches of trees, and if it happens to be the season of lotuses, a profusion of lotus buds and blossoms fills the meeting-place. One of the teachers is elected to be the chairman for the evening, and a special seat of honour is prepared for him. Over his head there hang, like the sword of , ropes of flowers, so that he looks like a queen of the May, and round his neck hang garlands as though he were a lamb prepared for the sacrifice. The various committees of management of these different periodicals vie with each other, not so much in the quality of their contributions, as in the beauty of the decorations and the garlands which are prepared in honour of these occasions of birthday celebration. Sometimes if the anniversary happens to fall during the hot weather, light refreshments are served at the close of the meeting, generally in the shape of iced sherbet. The meeting itself consists of a report of the year’s progress by the editor, and the reading of stories, poems and essays by the contributors. Sometimes pictures which have been given for illustration are exhibited, and afterwards the chairman or the poet himself, if he is present, will criticise the writings which have been read, suggesting in what way they might be improved. In certain cases there is a competition, either for the best picture or the best story. In this way the boys are encouraged to think and write for themselves, and one or two of those who have illustrated these manuscript magazines have proved to be artists of real ability.

Occasionally excursions will be planned, either for the day for the whole School, or for several days to some place of historical interest, in which case only a few selected boys will go accompanied by two or three of the teachers. In the former case we go to some place within easy reach of the ashram, and taking our food with us cook it by the side of a river or under the trees in a wood. The whole day is spent in the open air, and singing and games form the chief part of the programme, though stories are also told by some of the teachers. On moonlight nights, especially, many of the boys go out for long walks with the teachers, and in this way the bond between the masters and the pupils becomes deep and strong. The teachers live in the dormitories with the boys, and are able therefore to help them in their work and share with them their daily life.

Football is the most popular form of sport in the School, and as there is plenty of space round the buildings, there is enough ground for several football fields, so that the boys of all ages can have their own games. Walking is not so popular, except when in the rainy season sudden storms of rain come deluging the surrounding country. Then the boys delight in going out into the midst of the heaviest deluge and getting thoroughly wet. Classes are stopped when these heavy storms come on, and keen delight is shown by the boys when they see that a dark and threatening sky offers them the chance of a cooling shower bath.

The following facts may be of interest to those who wish to know the more practical details of the working of the School.

At present there are about 150 boys in the ashram, some of whom come from other parts of India, though the majority are from Bengal. There are about twenty teachers, some living with their families, resident in the School. The age of the boys ranges from six to seventeen or eighteen, the younger ones being under the charge of special teachers. These younger boys often take their meals in the homes of the married teachers, the wife of one of them, for example, having undertaken to look after ten boys who come to her house for all their meals for a week, allowing another ten to take their turn.

The boys are of all castes, and it is expressly stated when they are admitted that they are to be allowed to exercise their own discretion in the matter of the observation or non-observation of caste distinctions. Serving at the meals is undertaken by all the boys in turn, which lightens the burden of the kitchen service.

The fees charged are the same for all the boys, though in certain cases poor students are admitted free. Each pupil is charged 30s. per month for tuition, board and lodging, so that the yearly expense to the parent is less than £20. But this does not represent the actual expense, as there is a large yearly deficit which has, up to the present, been met by the founder of the School.