A Letter to Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore (Robi Thakur)

Dear Robi Thakur,

164 years ago, the soil of Bengal bore a gem—a gem that shone brighter than the pole star at the dawn of Indian independence, lighting the path of millions, filling their hearts with fire to burn and be a beacon in the face of darkness. That gem is you, Gurudeb, the Rabindranath Tagore, and your pen is the moonlit bridge of hope carrying us toward the light, across the vast ocean of all things evil.

Your ink spills on the paper, holding the likeness of morning dew on a lotus, glides down its body, and into the pool of mercy, gentleness, and wrath. Each stroke is as iridescent as the Aurora Borealis, neither darker than night, nor lighter than day, just the right shade to hold the setting Sun's glee. Each word soars higher than the eagle in the sky, yet it roars like the grounded lion's pride. It is your words, Gurudeb, that have woven themselves together to form chains of iron, tethering the hearts of uncountable Indians to their motherland. It is your poems, Gurudeb, a mirror to society. It is your songs, Gurudeb, that provide shelter to the astray.

Be it Upagupta's austerity, or the Dui Paakhi's (two birds') longing to be together; be it the kind-hearted Kabuliwala, or Binodini's defiance toward society's archaic customs; you have captured every emotion possible to humanity with unimpeachable nuance through your characters. Thank you, Gurudeb, for being the visionary that you were, thank you for shaping the literature I study today, and thank you for being the connection between the mind, the heart, and the pen for all who follow in your wake.