At a reception organized at Santiniketan to pay homage to Rabindranath Tagore’s literary genius after he had been awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, Tagore said, “The insult and infamy that was my lot to suffer at the hands of my country were not inconsiderable in quantity and so long I had borne them with patience. In this context, I have not been able to understand clearly why I received honor from outside. I did not know that God, whom I had offered homage sitting on the Eastern shore, would extend his right arm in the western shore to accept the same… Europe has given me the garland of honor. If it carries any value, it lies in the aesthetic sense of the men of culture of that country. That has no connection with our country.” It is perhaps the only recorded incident when Tagore lost his innate sense of courtesy and self-control. Coming from a person who has been regarded for over a century as the first person to put India on the literary map of the world, Tagore’s words speak tons for the double standards in Indian literary taste and for a nation’s failure to recognize its literary geniuses until and unless they bear the western stamp of approval. It is no wonder that most Indian English writers prefer to chalk the journey of their literary stardom away from homeland.
One wonders if it’s even worthwhile to think about it. What difference could it make, wondering something knowing that it will make you circle to the same point. Even the question of arguing against the things coming a full circle seems baseless. Things have no ends only useless intersections, always throwing things out out of place, making one believe as if there’s something worthwhile going on.
One wonders, one struggles and one dies. It could be as simple as that but the mind doesn’t believes. It pushes even though it’s there on the edge of the cliff. But still it never falls, always hinges back to something and then sadly that tiny winy of that hinge looks like the base of everything sustainable, though what so ever farce that could be.