Reminiscences
Tagore at Oxford . . . . . .
This article by Shahid Suhrawardy, a scholar and diplomat, first appeared in the Calcutta Municipal Gazette in 1941. Star Literature reproduces it in segments in the interest of its readers . In 1913 when Rabindranath Tagore received the Nobel Prize I was a student at Oxford. In those days we were not many Indians, but we had amongst us a fervent, energetic band of young men, passionately patriotic, inclined to the extreme brand of nationalism and intolerant of moderation in all its forms. Scientific Marxism, the creed of the modern Oxford Indian, was unknown to us, though we also called ourselves socialists, meaning by socialism, in the manner of many contemporary Indian nationalists, a liberal loosely mystical devotion to the idea of the Motherland. It was in 1912 that this group took over the Oxford Indian Club, a vague institution for tea and cakes on a Sunday afternoon founded some time previously by Har Dayal, and transformed it into the Oxford Majlis, which became not only the centre for all kinds of revolutionary debates at Oxford, but a powerful organisation upon which, because of our habit of voting solidly, depended the results of the election for the president ship of the Oxford Union. To our meetings there came all the prominent orators among the students of the University, who sought our approval and suffrage by tempering their views on India according to our liking. We had indeed become a force in University politics, and Oxford Indians of the time were very conscious of their position as they sauntered down the High after dinner and exchanged uncomplimentary remarks and often blows with English students, who would reply to their anti-British slogans by asking them to go back to their black country. One can understand to what an extent there was an increase in our self-opinionated insolence when the rumour came to our ears that the highest prize in literature was going to be awarded to one who belonged to us. It is difficult now for me to recapture the elation and the ecstasy of those days, but I still remember distinctly that look of awe which was in my landlady's eyes when she brought in the breakfast with the morning paper containing the scoop, of which we had come to know earlier from 'Mullickda' (Basanta Kumar Mullick) who had somehow already met the Tagores in London. Outwardly we, of course, took this sudden rise in our status for granted, but I must confess to a sense of relief that for the first time, after centuries, the India in whose past greatness we profoundly believed, without having much knowledge about it, had been placed once again on the map of the world. Till then we Indians were being looked upon as the degenerate descendants of those who had composed the Vedic hymns (in Max Muller's translations), or as snake-charmers or theosophists or, at best, terrorists from the banks of the Ganges. I am ashamed to say that owing to defective upbringing I was then, as I am now, ignorant of Bengali except of the most debased kind, and so I had heard with a certain amount of skepticism of the great popularity of Tagore's verses, which were being sung, I was told, in every village home in Bengal. Therefore to me, as to those who first came to know of him through translations, the first renderings of his verses in English, not only because of their novelty but for their high personal literary flavour came as a great revelation. I must confess, however, that during that first period not a little of that unbounded appreciation of the newly-initiated which I had for the Poet's works was due to my knowledge of the association and collaboration with him of Rothenstein, Sturge Moore and particularly Yeats, a name draped in our fancy with magic raiments. About Santiniketan I knew a little more. That year among the newcomers at Oxford there was a particularly chubby youth with a great deal of personal attractiveness, who had been brought up there and who described it to us in glowing colours. This was Apurva Chanda. After Santiniketan he had gone to the Central Hindu College at Benares and had come up to Oxford with a number of young men from that institution. They were all vegetarians, extremely devout, longhaired and soft-spoken. During week-ends their number would become larger by the arrival from Cambridge of similar young men, notable amongst whom was Sri Prakash whom I came to know well afterwards, and it was said of them that in the early morning they gathered under a tree and chanted Vedic hymns. I did not believe there was any vestige of truth in all this except that they all lived in a house in Wellington Square and that behind locked iron-railings there actually was a tree in that square. Notwithstanding, with that thoughtless irresponsibility, which is the charm and the most irritating quality of Oxford undergraduates, I too helped in the diffusion of this legend. The only thing which might have sustained the story was that Apurva with a beatific expression had the habit of half-reciting and half-chanting a few of the Poet's songs and we used to see in them through our burning imagination a beauty such as never was on land or sea. Apurva's singing not only took us in, which was easy, as we had no competence except our enthusiasm, but even Philip Heseltine who later on under the name of Peter Warlock made such a name for himself in English music. The Oxford Majlis used to invite all prominent Indian politicians, who happened to be in England, as well as a great many English public men with interest in India. In fact, it was a loved game of ours to get hold of a well-known Indian political leader, cajole and flatter him, lavish hospitality upon him, invite him to the Majlis meeting and then skin him alive, proving to him that he was a worthless worm, who, inspite of his nationalistic pretensions, had done nothing else all his life but lick the boots of British imperialism. For, in those days if one thing we hated above everything else, it was experience. Naturally Indian public men in England used to dislike us, because of our bad name, yet they always came, almost afraid of annoying us by refusing our invitation, which would usually be entrusted to me as I had developed a gift for treacherous blandishment. I used to arouse their interest in us by mock humility, pretending that we were thirsting to be taught, while all along I knew what fate awaited them once they walked into our parlour. I coud give a long list of distingusihed Indians who were thus brought to Oxford by me ; only one person tamed us, that was Sarojini Naidu, another was consistently obdurate and that was Jinnah. Even in those days he was a difficult person. So it is quite intelligible, if, given our reputation, we were a little afraid that the Poet might not accept our invitation. I was asked to proceed to London and explain to him, should occasion arise, that as far as he was concerned, we had transformed ourselves into a domesticated herd of antelopes. .....Courtesy Mahboob Alam, former ambassador. (More next week)
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