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#Rabindranath Thakur
suniah · 10 days
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O Great Life (A slightly modified version of a translation by Osman Gani)
O Great Life! No more of this Poetry, Now bring the hard, harsh Prose, Let the poetic-tender-chime dissolve, Strike the tough hammer of Prose today!
(We) need not of the softness of Poetry– Poetry, today I give you a break, For in the realm of Hunger, the world is prosaic: The Full Moon appears to be a scorched bread.
– Sukanta Bhattacharya (Chharpatra, 1947)
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intellectual6666 · 23 days
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অধিকারলাভের যে মর্যাদা আছে, সেই মর্যাদা রক্ষা করিতে হইলে অধিকারপ্রয়োগকে সংযত করিতে হয়। যতটা পাওয়া যায় ততটা লইয়া টানাটানি করা কাঙালকেই শোভা পায় — ভোগকে খর্ব করিলেই সম্পদের যথার্থ গৌরব
- রবীন্দ্রনাথ ঠাকুর (চোখের বালি)
Video credit : Social media platform
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zeherili-ankhein · 2 months
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Remembering the time when me and my friend @foreignink tried to write a story with just two cameo characters in Kabuliwala but never finished.
And now our school life with eachother ended.
“আমার সপ্তাদশ পরিচ্ছেদে প্রতাপসিংহ তখন কাঞ্চনমালাকে ল‌ইয়া‌ অন্ধকার রাত্রে কারাগারের উচ্চ বাতায়ন হইতে নিম্নবর্তী নদীর জলে ঝাঁপ দিয়ে পড়িতেছেন” – কাবুলিওয়ালা
One day. YES ONE DAY. We will finish it. (Maybe)
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moondusttown · 2 years
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“I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times, in life after life, in age after age forever.”
Rabindranath Tagore
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espressomylove · 2 years
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Looking at skies everywhere
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ibonoco · 1 year
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Today I'm going to pick fruit for you
Today I’m going to pick fruit for you
LA CUEILLETTE DES FRUITS (extrait) I Dis-moi et je cueillerai mes fruits pour les apporter dans des paniers pleins dans ta cour, même si certains sont perdus et d’autres pas mûrs.Car la saison est lourde de sa plénitude, et l’on entend dans l’ombre le son plaintif de la flûte du berger.Dis-moi, et je m’embarquerai sur le fleuve. Le vent de mars est capricieux, et transforme les vagues…
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drmullaadamali · 2 years
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भारतीय राष्ट्रगान के रचयिता, गुरुदेव रवींद्रनाथ टैगौर जी की जयंती पर कोटि-कोटि नमन।🙏🌹
www.drmullaadamali.com
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giantjupiter · 16 days
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I got this amazing resource for Rabindrasangeet:
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banglakhobor · 9 months
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'সমুখে শান্তি পারাবার, ভাসাও তরণী হে কর্ণধার'
<p><strong>কলকাতা:</strong> মৃত্যুর শোক তাঁকে স্পর্শ করেছে এক ভিন্ন আঙ্গিকে। ঠিক যেভাবে আগুনের প্রবল উত্তাপে লোহা নিজেকে আরও দৃঢ় করে তোলে। তাই ‘মৃত্যুঞ্জয়ী’র জয়গান করে গিয়েছিলেন আজীবন। তাঁর জীবনে মৃত্যুর শোকযাত্রা তো কম আসেনি। মা-কে হারিয়েছিলেন অল্পবয়সে, এরপর নতুন বৌঠান কাদম্বরী, স্ত্রী মৃণালিনী দেবী, বাবা দেবেন্দ্রনাথ ঠাকুর, কন্যা রেণুকা ও বেলা, কনিষ্ঠ পুত্র শমী- অশীতিপর বয়সে আঘাতের বাণ গ্রহণ…
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studyplanbd111 · 2 years
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zeherili-ankhein · 2 months
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If you call him Rabindranath Tagore and not Rabindranath Thakur, sorry we can't be friends. I hate you already.
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moondusttown · 2 years
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I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times, in life after life, in age after age forever.
Rabindranath Tagore
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khwxbeeda · 2 months
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Date Ideas: Desi Edition
I'm in my TS Lover Era and I need some Pune date ideas so uh.. enjoy my thinking process ig
A proper date: dinner and drinks. Proper manners and polite conversation over good food and good beverages/drinks. You and your date pretend to be very serious adults with very serious jobs, and when you walk out of the restaurant you share a secret laugh as if you've pulled the greatest prank ever.
Chaha date. Standing on the side of a road under the insufficient cover of the chai stall with your fingers gripping the edge of plastic cups or mud tumblers, taking a deep sniff and closing your eyes at the smell of veldoda that wafts up. Looking up and catching their gaze already fixed on you, and looking back down, feeling the heat spread over your cheeks. You attribute it to the chaha's steam, but you know that's a lie. When you look back up, they're wating for you. They wink, and you nearly drop your cup, making them stifle a giggle.
Kulfi date. It's a crowded lane and you cram into the little hole in the wall kulfi parlour that's been there since your parents were children, excited smiles on both your faces. You order laal peru and request them to sprinkle chilli powder on top. Your partner gives you a dramatic scandalized look that has you cracking up and orders a sitafal kulfi without the chilli, please and thank you. With a lot of whining and teasing and mischievous smiles, you finally get them to taste your kulfi, and it ends with them ordering it for themself. You lean back in your chair and grin smugly even as they roll their eyes.
Book thrifting. Hands held, you walk into your usual book shop, a smile lighting up your face at the familiar smell of mogra and yellowing pages that hangs in the little room. It's a tiny shop in the basement of a shady old plaza, but it always has the best second hand books. The idea is to buy a book you think the other will enjoy, and then discuss them when you are done reading them. You pick up Ruined by Paula Morris, because you remember the three M's that your date swears by: Magic, Murder and Mystery. This is a perfect blend of all three, and you rather think they'll enjoy it. When you meet them at the counter, they have Nashtaneer by Rabindranath Thakur in their hands. You both grin at each other.
Juna Bazaar is as crowded as always. You giggle as they grip your wrist and drag you from shop to shop, rambling about their lecture in college. The sonchafa that you had tucked behind their ear is still there, and it makes something warm settle in your heart. You keep your mind on the mission though: buy three of the most interesting things you see, and then explain why you think it is interesting. They gasp and snap up a beautiful crystal vial like a magpie. It turns out to be kajal, made the traditional way. "You have to!" they insist, "it'll look so good with your pretty eyes!" You turn red and accept the little wand, dragging it between your eyelids. When you're done, your partner stares at you with their lips parted. Just as you're about to wave in front of their eyes and ask if they're okay, they lean forward and steal a lightning-fast kiss. "Too darn pretty for your own good, you are."
Camp area date! You two take a whole day to just stroll through Camp, pulling each other into random shops and cafés, looking at everything and eating from restaurants and roadside stalls alike. Your partner drags you deep into a sketchy looking plaza, and you find a clothing shop that sells the most random fashion items. You go to an ittr and perfume store. You visit Pasteur Ice Cream, Cafe Peter, the chaat stalls near Clover Centre and the barbeque corn stalls a little ways from Kumar Plaza. At the end of the day, you go home and show each other all your purchases; they bought you a bejewelled purse that goes with that one pair of your heels and you squeal over it, you bought them a chandan attar because you remember them mentioning it being their favourite smell and they immediately rub it over their wrists with a bright smile.
The two of you are tucked into a little corner of the garden. Sitting on an old bedsheet with several lunchboxes filled with bhel, samosa, kaju katli, shrikhand, slices of mango and watermelon and a bunch of green grapes. Your phone plays a familiar tune— Ishq Wala Love, and you're mouthing the lyrics in the most dramatic style that you can, revelling in the laughter of your partner. There is a mogra cha gajra braided into your hair and three roses tucked behind their ear; your little gifts to each other. Their eyes gleam bright with mirth, lips curved upward into a wide grin, and you can't help but lean forward and press a soft kiss to their lips. This picnic date is the best idea you've had in a while, you think, and the late spring flowers in bloom are the perfect addition.
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Tag list: @mad-who-ra @yehsahihai @natures-marvel @musaafir-hun-yaaron @hum-suffer @h0bg0blin-meat @orgasming-caterpillar @wyvrens @kanha-sakhi
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whatthehellami · 6 months
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A lot of poets and writers have written words which stab so deep into the heart that you will be left pleased to bleed indefinitely. But as a Bengali, a soft and homely corner in my heart will always be reserved for Rabindranath Thakur. A man so eloquent and gentle with words that I don't think that I've been completely able to grasp the gravity of his genius.
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If you love someone else,
And if you never come back (to me)
I wish that you get what you desire
And all the sadness and misery be in my fortune
(Amaro porano jaha chaye, i,e. What my heart desires by Rabindranath Tagore)
>I did try to translate but English doesn't do much justice to his words, or maybe I am incapable of doing justice to his art. Nevertheless, my admiration for him is immense and to write about him is an honor.
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Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. (Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore)
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Feelings of all types have been explored by Gurudev. He has carefully held the fragility of the emotions and has trapped them in the pages of his book, so much so, that while reading you can feel them give you a warm embrace. For it requires complete mastery and a compassionate heart for the words to resonate decades later.
I would like to end this with the hope that you too are able to relish the delicacy that is Tagore's writing which indeed, is a privilege.
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ramayantika · 9 months
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A goodbye needed
From being born in Hyderabad to living in the northern part of India, that is Gurgaon and then the Western side, Maharashtra to Vishakhapatnam in the south and finally in the eastern states of Chhattisgarh, West Bengal, and Odisha, I do get to say that I covered eighteen years of my life in the four main directions of India. But my favourite city has and will always be Kolkata.
To be honest, my brother desperately wanted to live in Kolkata because of Eden Gardens in our GK book. I wasn't that interested until I arrived in Kolkata in 2016 to appear for the written test in my school. The exam went well and so did the interview. I remember my father lived in a small bachelor's one room apartment in Ruby Park. My eleven year old eyes were stunned as they took in the grandeur of the old buildings from the British era to the modern metros and malls of Kolkata. When I came back to Raipur, all I knew was Kolkata would be life changing for me.
And in 2017, I did come home. To Kolkata. A small roadside apartment facing a canal where you don't have crystal clear water but drainage water. Somehow the water wasn't stinky until the arrival of the monsoon showers. I lived there from 2017 to 2020. I was supposed to stay there until 2022 but fate had other plans but that's a story for another day.
I always call Kolkata home even though I am from Odisha. It was the only city that embraced all shades of me. I spent the first two years of my teenage there. The damp roads leading to my apartment have heard my songs above sweet love and true friendship. On quiet midnights, my tiny balcony knew the whispers of my soul, and the questions it asked about fate and the world. The monsoon rainfall told me how to appreciate nature and beauty. I learnt to dance with storms, and dream of stories that I now write and desperately wish to be a part of.
I met a teacher who told me in a tone akin to a whisper in front of the class that I am like a small pandora box, hidden from view but having the most wonderful and beautiful things to offer the world. The next month I danced for a school event and God since then I never looked back. Kolkata connected my soul to literature and culture.
I am no longer in Kolkata but each time my calendar notifies Rabindranath Thakur's jayanti, my heart goes to the old tunes of Rabindra sangeet; the beauty and tenderness of his songs that captured my heart and caused me to spill some of my poetry in the last page of my rough notebook.
I visited kolkata again in December 2021 after first term examinations of class twelve. My connection with kolkata broke like a plant uprooted from its soil. It felt as if I had been banished from home. All the months that passed, and all the seasons that changed showed me memories and dreams of what could have been in kolkata. But when I visited kolkata, I saw how some things had changed.
My home appeared....... different? I always say that my young soul blossomed in Kolkata. The same soul turned sad at the emotion that the city showed me. Perhaps that's how growing up is. To see that things around you change, people, roads, hearts everything but somewhere there still lies a calling that says, 'hey, I know things are different. But I am still here. Look at me, embrace the new me. Embrace yourself. You are changing too.'
Where it once used to be wonder, nostalgia filled my heart as I met my friends after two years. I passed through my apartment again and smiled at the balcony, my small corner for solitude. I saw a few towels hanging there.
Going back from Kolkata felt a little sad. I could not accept the change. I had been uprooted from my roots, and when I come back I see new flowers springing up. Without me?
Then after a year, I visited Kolkata again in July 2023. I had grown so had the city. When I passed by the same British era buildings and Howrah bridge, the same wonder struck my soul. I saw a few flowers growing on the pathway, getting their nourishment from the July showers. The empty space in my heart too was filled with flowers. My friends who are now in their respective colleges, doing their own things with their own friend circles now but somehow we come together. Just like old days before.
Home is always home no matter how far you go or how long you stay away from it. Home will always welcome you back. The fragrance of wet earth filled my soul with a warm blanket, as if telling me that all this while, I waited for you. I am different but I am still your friend.
Era sukher laagi chahe prem, prem mele na.
Shudhu sukh chole jaye emoni mayar cholona
This song will always remind me of Kolkata, the warm monsoon nights that were filled with a longing of love, friendship and magic. It will take me back to dreams and whispers of a fantasy that my heart still believes in that I would one day bring forth the wonder and beauty of my Self to the world. It will remind me that there must be tender days to be spent in reading poetry on a cool evening.
The day I boarded the train to Durgapur, my heart hummed the tune of Era Sukher Lagi from Choker Bali. As the train left the station, I waved at my young self through the window. It was farewell. I would come home later for my dance work, a thread that shall tie me to this wonderful city forever but I would never come home this way ever again and for the first time I was happy. And perhaps to witness an end to a heartwarming journey of nostalgia, acceptance to change and farewell, the clouds showered rainfall against the window just like the cool monsoon nights years ago.
All was well....
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I really loved that Marauders Dark Academia post <333 I was wondering if you have any other Indian James Potter headcanons? About him or his family etc
Ohhhhh i have sO. MANY.
He does that thing where you slurp chai, click your tongue and say 'haaaaa!' Sirius and Remus give him so much shit for it for the first couple months, but then they start doing it and Peter finds it annoying and suddenly everyone in Gryffindor is being subjected to extremely exaggerated 'haaaaa!'s
He absolutely loathes it when people say British food tastes good. He gets into so many arguments with Peter about it because "come on, mate, that's the sweetest chai my mother makes, she's even skipped the ginger, how do you find it spicy?* "It has cinnamon, Jamie." "Cinnamon is fucking sweet, you little—"
He's obsessed with literature and poetry. Like, even obsessed is a mild word. People think Remus is the type to read books but no, wolf boy over there wouldn't touch a book if he didn't abso-fucking-lutely need to. James is the real bookworm— he got it from his Baba, who waxed poetic about Rabindranath Thakur and Vivekananda and Ghalib and Faiz Ahmad Faiz and told James that their writing was amazing and then there's this little boy reading under his covers with a little ball of not-so-accidentally conjured light which is how he gets his glasses before he even goes to Hogwarts.
He's three quarters Desi. His mother was from India, and his father was half Indian, because James' paternal grandmother was also from India. Specifically, both women were from pureblood Maratha lines.
He does the head movements. All the head movements. Sirius picks it up after spending literally all their time together, and Remus and Peter laugh themselves sick about it so many times, oh my gods.
Sirius learns Marathi, Hindi and Urdu from James' parents in secret and surprises James during the holidays after sixth year because he has the proper accent down and everything. James cries (but he won't admit it)
The Potter family, except James' paternal uncle Charlus and his wife Dorea, live in India till right before his 11th birthday, when the Indo Pak war breaks out. Then they move to England.
James has so. Many. Cousins. He can't remember the names of half of them and he hates how the atyas and the maushis and the mamis pull his cheeks when he visits the country, but he puts up with it because family is important to him. Also he loves playing with the toddlers and babies, they're fucking cute.
Loves kajal so much it's borderline unhealthy. There will always. Always. Be a line of black under his eyes, winging out slightly at the outer corners. Sometimes, when he's feeling himself, he will draw the wing out to a dramatic, bold style that makes the light brown of his eyes look so much more beautiful (Lily drives herself crazy over it).
Absolute pants at waltzing. He loves the music, sure (he can play almost every sheet of piano music he can find on the first try bc baby boi is a Pureblood brat /affectionate/), but he hates the dance style. He'd much rather wrap his ankles with ghungroo and dip his fingers into alta dye, because bharatnatyam is the ultimate dance form and you are wrong if you have any other opinion.
He was really good friends with the Patil twins' parents and family. They would get together to talk shit about the gore loka and Sirius would get mock annoyed that James almost never took him because "Jamie we're practically married already what the fuck mate"
He's really fucking good at maths and arithmancy, and he really fucking hates it. Stupid numbers and their stupid calculations kashyasathi kartoy mi he kay upayog tari ahe ka hyacha (marathi— why am I doing this is this even of any use) but he has a point to prove to snivellus and fuck if he isn't proving it. It also helps that his mother made him complete all fourteen levels of abacus (seven basic and seven advanced) by the time he was fourteen.
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