Sixty one winters, sinking into our third lockdown in the pandemic, and I finally found Tagore. Or perhaps, Tagore finally found me.
His novella Chaturanga was profoundly disorienting. It both shook and lifted me up. The unexpected twisting and turning plot seems to me to echo the organic unwinding of life itself.
The novel Yogayog pulled me deep into a world simultaneously foreign and extremely familiar. And then left me floating in mid-air at its abrupt and totally unexpected ending. Again, like life itself.
I have started a journey from a foreign literary name to the intimacy of inhabiting the worlds the name created…