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Keya Sarkar: Tagore in my soul

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Keya Sarkar New Delhi
Last Updated : Jun 14 2013 | 3:54 PM IST
At any social do in Santiniketan, the first thing that one is almost invariably asked is whether or not I have lived and studied in Santiniketan. Every time I have to say that I am not from Santiniketan, and that I have never studied here "" that having lived and studied in Kolkata, I made my career in Mumbai and have just recently shifted to Santiniketan.
 
Then I am asked about why I chose to move to Santiniketan. "My grandfather had built a house here, and I just happen to like the place," I normally reply. What may seem like normal social chatter and a friendly inquisition is actually what I call a "Tagore barometer".
 
All answers to questions asked actually reveal whether or not I have imbibed the Tagore philosophy, how conversant I am with his writing, his family tree, anecdotes which are known to a select circle and so on. Once you establish that you are reasonably ignorant of all that the Santiniketan residents hold dear, you are pretty much struck off the social, Rabindra sangeet-singing circle.
 
For people like me, outsiders to the Tagore tradition, being ousted from social dos is actually not a great pity. Because what amazes me is how many of the cultural evenings in Santiniketan held in homes of Santiniketan celebrities are actually very stuffy affairs.
 
Where unless you look knowledgeable and sway to the singing at the right tempo all other invitees look askance. I have actually come across people who just to be a part of this "Tagore knowing" set, actually enroll for a course at the university. Once you have a degree from the Visva Bharati University you are automatically blessed.
 
What to me is even more tragic is that the university chooses to sweep aside all problems by singing Rabindra sangeet or enacting Tagore dance dramas for every possible occasion.
 
For the beginning of the year, for the end of the year, for Tagore's birthday and the birthday of Tagore compatriots who helped with the setting up of the university, the advent of spring, the advent of monsoon, and so on. The same songs, the same faces, all make for a ritualistic and contrived atmosphere where spontaneity seems to have been a casualty.
 
The few such events that I attended left me cold, and when in Santiniketan, I decided not to do as "they" do. I did not leave the stuffy atmosphere of corporate power corridors to get into sangeet swaying ones, I rationalised. I did mourn the loss of an opportunity to appreciate and imbibe the teachings of Tagore and some other great teachers, but the choice was little.
 
So when a friend invited me to celebrate his 50th birthday I gladly accepted, knowing that he is not the stuffy Santiniketan kind, and the party, if one may call it that would be akin to what we lesser mortals are familiar with.
 
While the beer and vodka and whisky did the rounds, so did Ella Fitzgerald and Norah Jones "" akin to environments I had left behind in Mumbai. As the evening progressed the party moved outside and voices of three generations mingled with the moonlight.
 
It was really beautiful, but in Santiniketan moonlights don't throw you. You kind of take them for granted ever so often, but the rest of the evening certainly did. My friend's father started to sing, almost as if that was his birthday gift to his son. At 82, he apologised for the state of his voice, but to us his choice of songs made up for any loss of baritone.
 
Many songs of Tagore and not only Tagore that I have heard many times before took on a new meaning in the singing. As all three generations joined in with only the evening summer breeze as accompaniment, I felt that ever since I had moved to Santiniketan, this was for the first time that I felt Tagore in my soul.

 
 

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First Published: Apr 30 2005 | 12:00 AM IST

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