The Home and the World

The Home and the World

By Rabindranath Tagore.

Translated by Surendranath Tagore.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. I
   1. Bimala’s Story
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
4. II
   1. Bimala’s Story
      1. IV
      2. V
   2. Nikhil’s Story
      1. I
      2. II
   3. Sandip’s Story
      1. I
5. III
   1. Bimala’s Story
      1. VI
   2. Sandip’s Story
      1. II
      2. III
6. IV
   1. Nikhil’s Story
      1. III
   2. Bimala’s Story
      1. VII
      2. VIII
      3. IX
      4. X
   3. Sandip’s Story
      1. IV
      2. V
      3. VI
7. V
   1. Nikhil’s Story
      1. IV
      2. V
   2. Bimala’s Story
      1. XI
      2. XII
      3. XIII
   3. Nikhil’s Story
      1. VI
      2. VII
8. VI
   1. Nikhil’s Story
      1. VIII
      2. IX
   2. Sandip’s Story
      1. VII
9. VII
   1. Sandip’s Story
      1. VIII
      2. IX
      3. X
10. VIII
    1. Nikhil’s Story
       1. X
       2. XI
    2. Bimala’s Story
       1. XIV
11. IX
    1. Bimala’s Story
       1. XV
       2. XVI
       3. XVII
12. X
    1. Nikhil’s Story
       1. XII
       2. XIII
       3. XIV
    2. Bimala’s Story
       1. XVIII
       2. XIX
13. XI
    1. Bimala’s Story
       1. XX
       2. XXI
       3. XXII
14. XII
    1. Nikhil’s Story
       1. XV
       2. XVI
    2. Bimala’s Story
       1. XXIII
15. Endnotes
16. Colophon
17. Uncopyright

Imprint

This ebook is the product of many hours of hard work by volunteers for Standard Ebooks, and builds on the hard work of other literature lovers made possible by the public domain.

This particular ebook is based on a transcription from Project Gutenberg and on digital scans from the Internet Archive.

The source text and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. They may still be copyrighted in other countries, so users located outside of the United States must check their local laws before using this ebook. The creators of, and contributors to, this ebook dedicate their contributions to the worldwide public domain via the terms in the CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication. For full license information, see the Uncopyright at the end of this ebook.

Standard Ebooks is a volunteer-driven project that produces ebook editions of public domain literature using modern typography, technology, and editorial standards, and distributes them free of cost. You can download this and other ebooks carefully produced for true book lovers at standardebooks.org.

I

Bimala’s Story

I

Mother, today there comes back to mind the vermilion mark1 at the parting of your hair, the sari2 which you used to wear, with its wide red border, and those wonderful eyes of yours, full of depth and peace. They came at the start of my life’s journey, like the first streak of dawn, giving me golden provision to carry me on my way.

The sky which gives light is blue, and my mother’s face was dark, but she had the radiance of holiness, and her beauty would put to shame all the vanity of the beautiful.

Everyone says that I resemble my mother. In my childhood I used to resent this. It made me angry with my mirror. I thought that it was God’s unfairness which was wrapped round my limbs⁠—that my dark features were not my due, but had come to me by some misunderstanding. All that remained for me to ask of my God in reparation was, that I might grow up to be a model of what woman should be, as one reads it in some epic poem.

When the proposal came for my marriage, an astrologer was sent, who consulted my palm and said, “This girl has good signs. She will become an ideal wife.”

And all the women who heard it said: “No wonder, for she resembles her mother.”

I was married into a Rajah’s house. When I was a child, I was quite familiar with the description of the Prince of the fairy story. But my husband’s face was not of a kind that one’s imagination would place in fairyland. It was dark, even as mine was. The feeling of shrinking, which I had about my own lack of physical beauty, was lifted a little; at the same time a touch of regret was left lingering in my heart.

But when the physical appearance evades the scrutiny of our senses and enters the sanctuary of our hearts, then it can forget itself. I know, from my childhood’s experience, how devotion is beauty itself, in its inner aspect. When my mother arranged the different fruits, carefully peeled by her own loving hands, on the white stone plate, and gently waved her fan to drive away the flies while my father sat down to his meals, her service would lose itself in a beauty which passed beyond outward forms. Even in my infancy I could feel its power. It transcended all debates, or doubts, or calculations: it was pure music.

I distinctly remember after my marriage, when, early in the morning, I would cautiously and silently get up and take the dust3 of my husband’s feet without waking him, how at such moments I could feel the vermilion mark upon my forehead shining out like the morning star.

One day, he happened to awake, and smiled as he asked me: “What is that, Bimala? What are you doing?”

I can never forget the shame of being detected by him. He might possibly have thought that I was trying to earn merit secretly. But no, no! That had nothing to do with merit. It was my woman’s heart, which must worship in order to love.

My father-in-law’s house was old in dignity from the days of the Badshahs. Some of its manners were of the Moguls and Pathans, some of its customs of Manu and Parashar. But my husband was absolutely modern. He was the first of the house to go through a college course