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Published online by Cambridge University Press: 23 March 2011
One day eight years ago
it was heard that they had taken him
to the dissecting room;
yesterday evening it was, in the darkness of the Phalgun night
when the fifth moon sank
his desire was to die.
His wife lay beside him, his child too;
he had love, and hopein the moonlightand then he saw
what spirit? Why did he wake from sleep?
Or perhaps sleep was a long time comingand now he lies
in sleep, in the dissecting room.
Perhaps he wanted this sleep.
Like a plague rat, face smeared with bloody foam,
neck twisted, in a lightless hole he sleeps now;
he will awake no more.
;He will awake no more
the thick pain of awakening
incessantlythe constant burden
he will bear no moreinto unprecedented darkness
as if beside his window
a few silences were come
like a camels neck.
1 The poem was read and discussed in a seminar at the University of Chicago led by Clinton Seely and myself. Mr. Scely's dissertation is on the subject of Jībanānanda, the first one to my knowledge written in this country on that fascinating man, and I hope he will in no way consider this little essay an intrusion. Other members of the seminar, to whom I am in debt for some of the thoughts to follow and in fact for the title of the essay, are David Curley, Ephraim Miller, Ruta Pempe, Aditinath Sarkar, Pabitra Sarkar, and John Sokolow. The reflections are on the death of a friend dear to my daughter.
Edward C. Dimock, Jr. is Professor of South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago.
2 Āṭ bachar āger ekdin, from Mahāpṛthibī, by Dāś, Jībanānanda. (Calcutta: Signet Press, 1376 B.S.)Google Scholar
3 From the point of view of the literary historian, the statement might be debatable. As one of my commentators has accurately pointed out, not only does Rabīndranāth exhibit “strong affinities with the English Romantic poets,” and see himself as a romantic, but in various ways establish himself as in fact “one of the pioneers of modern Bengali poetry.” As will be clear, however, I intend to deal with only one aspect of the thought, rather than the literary expression, of this versatile man, and the term “classical” is meant to apply to his attitude more than to his often iconoclastic means of communication.
4 Bose, Buddhadeva, An Acre of Green Grass (Calcutta: Orient Longmans, 1948), p. 71Google Scholar. I am indebted to Ruta Pempe for calling my attention to the passage.
5 Ibid., p. 70.
6 Zaehner, R. C., Hindu and Muslim Mysticism (London: University of London at the Athlone Press), 1960, p. 30.Google Scholar
7 The analysis is not published, but the outline of the myth can be found in Dimock, Edward C. Jr. and Ramanujan, A. K., “Manasā, Goddess of Snakes, part II,” in History of Religions (Winter 1964), pp. 300–322.Google Scholar
8 Jībānananda dāśer śreṣṭha kabitā (Calcutta, Nabhana Press, 1956), p. 94Google Scholar. This is not a new idea. There is a passage in the seventeenth century Caitanya-caritāmṛta of Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja (III:5) which describes a scene in which a drama has been brought by its author for Caitanya to hear. In such cases it was policy for a censor, Svarūpa Dāmodara by name, to read the literary offering first, to see whether or not it would offend Caitanya's ears. He judged that this one would, and for an interesting reason. Svarūpa said that the drama developed only “seeming rasa:” because it had a basic theological flaw, neither ornaments nor images could possibly be good. And the flaw was that the author of the drama had said that Jagānnātha was the body of Kṛṣṇa, while Caitanya was the spirit. The truth is that Jagānnātha, Caitanya, and Kṛṣṇa are all identical in both body and spirit. They seem different in form, it is true, but this is because God can appear in any form, at any time and in all time, without in any way affecting his essence.
9 Bidāy-rīti, from Kṣaṇikā; in Rabīndra-racanāvalī, vol. 7 (Viśvabhāratī, 1961), p. 264.
10 Anuśāsana-parvan: 166.
11 Sáha jahān from Balākā in Bicitra, (Viśvabhāratī, 1368 B.S.), p. 604.
12 Jībanānanda Dāś, op. cit., p. 9.