Rashmi bookmarks “The Postmaster”

I am actually still reading A Storm of Swords, so for this week, I decided to blog about a short story I recently re-read: The Postmaster by Rabindranath Tagore (as translated by William Radice).

Winner of the 1913 Nobel Prize for Literature, Tagore (or, Thakur, as it is pronounced in Bengali) was a poet, short-story writer, song composer, playwright, essayist and painter.

What draws me most to Tagore each and every time is the sheer poetry that is used to describe simple everyday events, and the perfect harmony in which he presents joy and pathos to create that oxymoronic yet perfect balance of victory and loss that always co-exists. There is always a strain of sadness, yet, above all, there is forever the trait of human dignity in the face of all odds.

The Postmaster is about a young postmaster - referred to as ‘Dadababu’ - who is re-allocated from the metropolitan city of Calcutta to the small and remote village of Ulapur; his complete inability to adapt to the changed pace of life; and his relation with the 12-year old Ratan, the orphan girl who does his housework.

One of the most beautiful things about this story was the amazing ambience created by the writer. Within moments I was lifted out of my surroundings, and instantly transported to a quiet and peaceful, lush green village in the summer / monsoon season, where smoke curls up from the village cowsheds in the evening, strains of Baul singers float in from a distant village, and a rain-laden soft breeze envelops smooth, shiny wet grass and leaves.

Even though I was raised in Delhi, I was born in Calcutta, where most of my family still is; I know the language, and have at least passed by or briefly visited some of its countryside. The setting of the story therefore, came even more alive for me, and I connected to it in a very personal way.

The other factor that made this story leave such an indelible mark on my heart was the unique “relation” that Dadababu and Ratan shared. Where the educated, self-important, city-bred Dadababu vacillates between complete oblivion and philosophical reflections, the simple and illiterate villager Ratan can only express a silent and unwavering devotion, however unreciprocated, however illogical.

Yes, there is parting, and yes there is the tragic sorrow that comes with parting… what raises The Postmaster above ordinary tragedy is the final note of the quiet strength of human dignity and of the writer’s own reflection of life and the human heart: “O poor, unthinking human heart! Error will not go away, logic and reason are slow to penetrate. We cling with both arms to false hope, refusing to believe the weightiest proofs against it, embracing it with all our strength. In the end it escapes, ripping our veins and draining our heart’s blood; until, regaining consciousness, we rush to fall into snares of delusion all over again.”