Bolai

(This is a poor translation of 'Bolai', a story by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore. The objective is merely to urge readers to read the original in Bengali, or better translations. We have added some notes to explain complex ideas. However, be warned these are our own interpretations and might be far from satisfactory.)

It is said that human life constitutes the concluding chapter in the evolutionary history of all creatures. It is known that characteristics of various animals become manifest in human beings. In fact, the creature whom we call human being is one who has blended all living creatures into one within himself— the cows and tigers are kept in the same enclosure; the snake and mongoose are trapped in the same cage. As an analogy consider the creation of melody: melody comes into being when the individual notes of sa-re-ga-ma are stringed together harmoniously - the individual notes cannot, thereafter, cause trouble. But, even within the melody, there could be some individual notes that surpass others and stand out — sometimes it is the ma which reigns supreme, sometimes it is the ga, or sometimes it is the pa which calls attention to itself.¹

In my nephew Bolai, the musical notes of plants and trees somehow resonated intensely within his nature. He was a quiet child—he preferred silent observation to running about, poking and shoving things. When layers of dark clouds gathered in the eastern sky, the moisture-laden breeze seemed to carry the scent of forests deep into his heart. And when the rain came thundering down, his whole being responded to its music. On bright afternoons, with the sun blazing overhead, he would walk bare-chested on the terrace, as though trying to gather something precious from the sky.

When the mango trees bloom towards the end of Magh, he experienced a silent joy coursing through his blood — a joy engendered by some undescribable memory. During the month of Phalgun, his inner nature blossommed just like the flowering sal trees and acquired a deep hue. At such times, he liked to sit alone and talk to himself, and recall all the stories he had heard — the story of the pair of birds, which had built its nest in the ancient banyan tree.

The wide-eyed ever-staring boy cannot talk much; so he has to take recourse to thoughts to compensate for his lack of speech.

Once I took him to the hills. A thick carpet of green grass sloped gently down the hill in front of our home. The boy was delighted at the sight. He refused to believe that the thick grass carpet on the hill was a stationary, lifeless material. No, he feels the grass is rolling down the hill playfully— rolling incessantly. He, too, loved to roll over the grass — his body would be covered by grass — and, as he rolled, the tips of the grass blades tickled him and he would giggle in delight.

The golden rays of the sun gently descends from the hill tops in the morning after the overnight rains and shines over the deodar trees - he stealthily creeps out of the house without informing anyone and stands awestruck under the shade of a deodar tree. His body quivers in amazement - it is as though he can discern human life within these giant trees. They don't talk but seem to know all secrets. They appear to him like grandfathers of yore who lived during the reigns of kings.

It is not that his gaze is always directed upwards; I have often seen him roaming in my garden as if searching for something on the ground. With unbound curiosity he bends over the new fragile seedlings as they cock up their ruffled heads towards the sun as if asking them, "What next? What next? What next?" The seedlings are his incomplete story. He has some kind of special affinity with the tender newly-emerged leaves as though they are of the same age. They too seem to be craving to ask him some questions. Perhaps they ask him, "What is your name?" Or perhaps they ask, "Where is your mother?" Bolai tells them, "I don't have a mother."

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