22nd Shravon

Some days back a reputable cultural organiser from my town said that she would celebrate 22nd Shravon inviting all the artists from town.

I was aghast to hear the word “celebrate.” Udjapon she actually said in Bengali. And that roughly translates as “celebrate.”

I pondered over the word. Which was to be celebrated, rather than commemorated?

Rabindranath Tagore’s death.

A line crossed my mind. It was one of the Bard’s 2178 songs: Kano re ei duartuku paar hote sangshae, joy ajanaar joy….

I looked up and saw some clouds enveloping the twilight sun. Little drops of rain wetted the earth. The outside smelt earthy.

Why are you worried to cross the door? Glory to the unknown….I murmured. Then I hummed the song.

I smiled at the woman. Yes, let’s celebrate His death. I said at the meeting in Rabindrabhavan.

The woman who is a lecturer at a local college and the convenor of meeting smiled back.

Life is to be enjoyed wholly. Death can’t be excluded. Everything in life is part of celebration. She said. Tagore taught us. She concluded. The smile still trailed her lips.

The large portrait of Tagore looked into outside mystically from the wall opposite to me.

The rain stopped. The after-rain breeze started stirring the nearby Kadam leaves. The rain- bathed kadam was irresistible in its heady fragrance.