Tagore Omnibus

The Tagore Omnibus, Volume I, (translators Sreejata Guha, Kaiser Huq, Hiten Bhaya and Malosree Sandel); New Delhi: Penguin Classics, Collector's Edition; 2005; pp. 726; Rs. 595.Cover is Face of a Woman, charcoal on paper by Rabindranath Tagore

Chokher Bali is a classic exposition of an extramarital affair that takes place within the confines of a joint family. Asha, the simple, demure wife of the rich, flamboyant Mahendra, befriends Binodini, a vivacious young widow who comes to live with them; but both Mahendra and Binodiini betray Asha's trust and elope, leaving the marriage in ruins.

Set against the backdrop of the Partition of Bengal by the British in 1905, Ghare Baire (Home and the World) is also the tale of a triangular relationship: between the liberal-minded zamindar Nikhilesh, his educated and sensitive wife Bimala, and Sandip, Nikhilesh's friend, a charismatic revolutionary who Bimala becomes attracted to.

Chaturanga (Quartet) traces the philosophical and emotional developments between Sachish, a brilliant young atheist, his friend Sribilash, and Damini, a young widow sheltered by the guru Lilananda, who Sachish and Sribilash become devotees of.

Set in the historical context of the decline of the landed aristocracy in Bengal and the emergence of the entrepreneurial class, Yogayog (Nexus) is the tale of Kumudini, the daughter of a cultured family that has fallen on bad times, who is torn between her loyalties to Madhusudan, her crass and self-serving husband, and Bipradas, her artistic and compassionate brother.

Finally, Malancha (The Garden) reveals the anguish of the sickly Neerja, who, confined to bed, suspects Sarala, her husband Aditya's childhood friend, of usurping her place both in Aditya's heart and in their beloved garden.

Farhad Ahmed is a free-lance writer/editor.

Extract from Chaturanga (The Quartet)

Secrets of the female heart

I didn't have enough experience to know the secrets of the female heart. My superficial observations led me to believe that women are ready to lose their hearts where they are sure to be requited with sorrow. They will string their garland for a brute who will trample it into the horrid slime of lust; or else they will aim it at a man whose head it won't reach because he is so absorbed in a world of abstraction that he has virtually ceased to exist. When they have a chance to choose their mates women shun average men like us, who are a mixture of the crude and the refined, know women as women--in other words, know that women are neither clay dolls nor the vibration of veena strings. Women avoid us because we offer neither the fatal attraction of murky desire nor the colourful illusion of profound abstractions; we cannot break through the remorseless torment of lust, nor can we forget them in the heat of abstraction and recast them in the mould of our own fancy. We know then as they really are; that's why even if they like us they won't fall in love with us. We are their true refuge, they can count on our loyalty; but our self-sacrifice comes so readily they forget that it has any value. The only baksheesh we receive from them is that whenever they need us they use us, and perhaps even respect us a little, but...enough! These word probably stem from resentment, and probably aren't true. Perhaps it is to our advantage that we get nothing in return; at least we can console ourselves with that thought.