Reflections : My Journey as a SIMC student

Chapter 2

Room no 556

Having feeling better being consoled and comforted by Parag, I headed back to my new abode, Room 556. It was a hard time looking for it. For one I wasn’t in the frame of mind as I entered with mom and dad, nor in the frame of mind now after they left, to even consider the concept of DIRECTIONS to play in my mind. Taking the help from the hostel guard thankfully, I found my way out.

The moment I stepped into the corridor, another realization dawned upon me, our room was the ONLY junior room in a corridor filled wid seniors! “uh oh” blurted my mind but entering a 3 seater room can be a comforting thought at the same time. The room is large, spacious enough to even play a miniature gully cricket!  3 beds—evenly spaced wid a study table and chair each. Shelves dedicated to pile ur books, puja ghar, food whatever, a cupboard each and a separate washroom and a separate bathing room, and your ready with your ghar grihasti !!

I was greeted with the warm smile from Pooja, who sat on the right side of the room on her bed doing some “khichir pichir” on her laptop (her usual habit that Im now well versed with! ) To my surprise I was greeted with another smile to the girl on my left. She sat there wearing a spaghetti and shorts and before I could ask for her introduction, she smiled and said , “Hi am Mansi”—Mansi Bagga , my roomie no 2.

My first impression about Mansi, was that she was confused with life and am not saying this on the basis of her Hi’s but before she made an appearance. As I was arranging my bed, I saw the two sides who I’ll be spending my 2 years with—while Pooja’s side was neat and clean, Mansi’s side witnessed cyclone Katrina---suit case opened, hair iron lying promptly like a cherry on a cake pile of clothes. However, as time passed the living habits between my 2 roomies interchanged!

Our room was unique for various other reasons---

• Mansi was from PR, Pooja from AD and me from Journalism
• Mansi was XS, Pooja was M and me..well L
• Pooja hardly spoke and when she did we could hardly hear, Mansi had her spurts of talking but I know for a fact she can’t stay without it, and me non-stop bakar party!
• Pooja and Mansi were the only 2 NRI girls in our batch, Pooja was from Dubai, Mansi from Bangkok and Me ..LOLOL who cares I have 2 FOREN maal’s wid me now!!

Together we formed the TERRIFIC trio! And Im glad we continue for round 2 this year again J

My phone buzzed with another message. This time it was another classmate I met on the FB page, Mohnish Bose. He had heard from Parag about my arrival and willingly wanted to take me out on a Campus tour. Considering a sweet gesture I tagged along. We passed by the mess and walked straight to the academic block and I see 2 girls giggling away amongst each other. Mohnish introduces the two as Poonam Nanaware and Reshma Raju Emmatty. For me they are like Romeo and Juliet now, who thought they were meant together but circumstantially separated.

These two, though one of them has now moved on , were the 1^st friends I had here at SIMC. In a way I thank both of them for making me less mellow about my separation with mom and dad.

They took me to what I consider heaven on Earth--- they took me to the amphitheater. In the darkness of the night, I saw the city of Pune gleam from high above like one million fireflies – A view one only recalls seeing as a flight takes off and the city reduces to a Lego toy on a shelf and men reduce to ants.

Sitting high above while the world stands below your feet gives a different high all together, for once you feel like Jack Dawson of Titanic, opening your arms stretched wide open and shouting “am the King of the world” *in this case I’m the princess*. My tears evaporated and my frown inverted I thought to myself “I will make it here” and silently smiled.

We reached the mess around 8:30 ish to have my first meal at SIMC. There is depletion of resources and there is abundance of resources and then there’s SIU mess—a perfect mix of the first to points. But then again as my senior Danny points out “you can eat crappy food every day alone..or you can eat eat crappy food every day in the presence of beautiful women” and FRIENDS if I may add .

Another SIMC ritual was realized as we ate---the power cut ritual, bringing out the beast in all of us as the lights in the mess went kaput for a short time, and where u hear people howling, whistling and doing the  “ooga mooga’s” at high decibel levels till the lights came back on and people behaved as though nothing happened. For the first time in my life I bizarrely wish that power cuts take place as frequently as possible at nights! But, oh the efficient management of SIU!

The deadline to enter the hostel I was told 12 midnight…

"sheesh I had come into a fairytale, the Cinderella deadline was there to prove it now” I jokingly thought to myself and smiled. 

As we walked down, the hostel roadway reminded me of Mamta Banerjee’s meetings on the Esplanade Metro roadway---it was filled people…well sitting down on the roads and the leader of the pack was this tall plumpy looking fellow with the ultimate weapon of war----the  GUITAR!!!

The people, sat there singing to this guy’s tunes, a guy called Vidyadhar Raghvan AKA Viddu, a true gem who wants to be like AR Rahman someday and considers Music and food as his “Fuel” *paradox* for life ;). They say Music heals all wounds and clears all sorrows and for a moment I was actually having fun.

Time flew and the clock struck 12—the crowd dispersed like fluttering pigeons, I enter my room. I see Pooja already fast asleep and Mansi on her laptop. I switch off all lights to call it a day, when I hear Mansi squeal like a small innocent child 

“Am scared of the dark”

Smiling sweetly I turn on the night light and retire for the night. 

My first night in an alien world, in an alien room, no back ups but still a faint hope as to everything being allright……..

What happens with me the next day?

Read on to Move on …..

Reflections : My Journey as a SIMC student

Chapter 1- New Beginnings

They say sunsets bring out the philosopher in a person. It’s not really true- wherever u are and whatever u do the key catalyst to reflect your thoughts down on a piece of paper is MOOD. Be it in the baking sun, or a bad day at work, if u have the mood to write u can churn out quite a few masterpieces (it did work for J.K . Rowling on a moving train didn’t it).

The weather in Calcutta at the moment is every romantic’s delight. The cold wind gushing in, and the little droplets of water spraying on my face through the window, will make every girly girl out here want to be with someone special, holding hands and getting drenched in the rain. For me, the weather works as what works during sunset by the sea side- it’s bringing the philosopher me, out.

As the rain gushes down the streets, I sit and reflect the journey of my life gone by in this one year.  This one year has taught me the art of survival, something that was long overdue in this cocoon called HOME.

The thought of hostel life scared the hell out of me since childhood. I used to consider it a means of doing something really offensive to mom and dad to attain this punishment—sort of like being  a criminal and staying in jail for so and so years. Mom and Dad on the other hand used these “hostel” threats to make humans out of me and bro.

Studying in a Christian missionary school and a Convent  College didn’t help either, rather it lead to conservation of thoughts towards life. I mean if u had teachers and missionaries male bashing in the name of “value education” what do you expect??

Getting a call from institutes like TSJ, TISS, ACJ, XIC, Christ University and SIMC were a sigh of relief . After numerous personal issues, I really required a break from this city. City of Joy didn’t seem joyous at the moment. Narrowing down to SIMC seemed a pretty good decision at that moment. Staying on a hill isolated from the hustle bustle of city life was just what the doctor ordered.

Who knew what I was about to encounter was something more than the idea of “getting away from it all” would do.

Joining SIMC PUNE GROUP 2012 was the first step---made quite a lot of friends  starting with Parag Gopale, whose 1^st interaction wid me was on my FB inbox was whether I was getting a Dell or an Acer laptop. He later on became my eyes and ears of SIMC mentioning all the happenings at campus till my arrival—from the boys hostel madness to just the weather.There was Chintan Buch who enlightened me with the fact I shared a room with a guy in the Boys Hostel and enjoyed this fact more than I could digest it! Kingshuk Dutta , my proposed roomie who I now wish every day of my life to be my roomie.

Joining a week later than the others , had a different flavor to it all. For once u feel like a shiny new toy on the shelf who others die to grab hold of. There were texts, wall posts, inbox messages from people who I didn’t even know from college updating me about every little details of what happened in and around SIMC. Kinda gave me a superior feeling for the first time in my life.

Apprehensions, excitement, sadness all seem to imbibe together in this weird sort of mixture on my mind. The 4 hour flight from Calcutta to Mumbai; and an additional 4 hours drive on the highway to Pune, added fuel to the fire.

I remember the excitement and weirdness felt at the same time when mom and dad sat there in my allotted room no 556 and arranged my stuff. Kinda felt like getting married or something and settiling in my new home *bleh*, when suddenly enters this curly hair chic wid specs, dawning a formal shirt and pants. Pooja Udaikumar was her name, she smiled and greeted me to the room with utmost warmth brimming from her 2 inch smile- my roomie no 1.

The time had come for mom and dad to go and leave me behind. We sobbed, we hugged, we promised to look after ourselves and ultimately we had to do the most crucial thing---- we had to let go. I was now beginning to understand how young Ishaan Nandkishore Awasthi felt when his parents and brother left him fending for himself in the hostel at New Era School, Panchgani. The “ma” song played in the background, as the Indica left the campus, leaving me, more than just teary eyed---wailing buckets.

I sat outside the recreation centre crying as if punished for doing something insanely wrong when a FB notification buzzed on my cell . 

It was Parag and it said “hey ..where are u? u were supposed to come today right? Waiting to see u buddy”

The reply  : “Im outside girls hostel crying..missing ma and pa already”

Meanwhile outside the hostel stood a girl who had been watching me mope like a sad puppy.

“Hey, everything ok?” she asked.

“No, Am sorry its my first time at a hostel, kinda home sick already”, said I.

“Aww I understand, I felt the same when my parents dropped me here..” and before she could say anything further , I felt a warm embrace around me like Munnabhai’s Jaadoo Ki Jhappi. Till today I share a special bond with that angel everyone know as Madhuri Joshi.

“Dunworry, Im in room 625, if u need anything at all” she smiled and left.

Enters Parag who looked as jubiliant as in his FB dp.

“Hey why are u crying? Ur a strong girl ya..dunworry, once u meet new people u feel fine “said he.

Indeed I did encounter many individuals, some I got along well, some not really, some who annoyed me, some who I annoyed.

The next few episodes will showcase how truly adventurous my life at SIMC is. So what if Im a silent observer who seems cut off from the rest,  yet annoying the crap out of some! 

Read on to Move on ;)

Go Gothic! -Gothic literature, poetry at its best!

Synopsis: Gothic Fiction or Dark writing has been one of the more lesser known genres in terms of poetry writing.One usually associates Poetry with some thing more Nature-ish, or Drama, or Romantic or simply a Spiritual treat.
Goth on the other hand is not usually a palatable treat to the eye simply because of its eerie, dark content. But Gothic poetry too has a history and such writing, though subdued by other genres is still a form of poetic genres.


Gothic poetry is a genre that combines elements of both horror and romance. As a genre, it is generally believed to have been invented by the English author Horace Walpole, with his 1764 novel The Castle of Otranto.

             The effect of Gothic fiction feeds on a pleasing sort of terror, an extension of Romantic literary pleasures that were relatively new at the time of Walpole's novel. Melodrama and parody (including self-parody) were other long-standing features of the Gothic initiated by Walpole.


English Gothic writers often associated medieval buildings with what they saw as a dark and terrifying period, characterized by harsh laws enforced by torture, and with mysterious, fantastic, and superstitious rituals. In literature such Anti-Catholicism had a European dimension featuring Roman Catholic excesses such as the Inquisition (in southern European countries such as Italy and Spain).


Prominent features of Gothicpoetry include terror (both psychological and physical), mystery, the supernatural, ghosts, haunted houses and Gothic architecture, castles, darkness, death, decay, doubles, madness, secrets, and hereditary curses.


The stock characters of Gothic fiction include tyrants, villains, bandits, maniacs, Byronic heroes, persecuted maidens, femmes fatales, monks, nuns, madwomen, magicians, vampires, werewolves, monsters, demons, angels, fallen angels, revenants, ghosts, perambulating skeletons, the Wandering Jew and the Devil himself.

Poetry written with a Dark theme has a meter or verse expressing various emotions which are expressed by the use of variety of techniques including metaphors, similes and onomatopoeia. The emphasis on the aesthetics of language and the use of techniques such as repetition, meter and rhyme are what are commonly used to distinguish Dark poetry from Dark prose. Poems often make heavy use of imagery and word association to quickly convey emotions.


The structural elements might include the line, couplet, strophe and stanza. Poets and Dark Poetry combine the use of language and a specific structure to create an imaginative and expressive poem.The structure used in Dark Poetry types are also used when considering the visual effect of a finished poem.


The following poem "A Ballad Of Suicide" written by noted Gothic Writer G.K Chesteron bears testimony to the above post!




                                                                                                   

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small
I think I will not hang myself to-day.ENVOI

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall
I think I will not hang myself to-day.  



The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours on the wall
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall
I see a little cloud all pink and grey
Perhaps the rector's mother will NOT call
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way
I never read the works of Juvenal                                                                                       

Fear to Love yet desire a Fairytale End - A Romantic Relish of poetry

Synopsis: Love, Romance a feeling that can't be explained.... just felt....Since childhood every girl dreams that one day that like Cinderella,she too will get her Prince Charming, who would take her away on his white horse and of course "LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER. I bear no exception to this dream and while others put this thought aside and face the realities of the harsh world, I choose to keep this feeling alive. 

Coming back to this genre Romanticism OR Romantic poetry largely began as a reaction against the prevailing "Enlightenment" ideals.The term “Romanticism” did not arise until the Victorian period and nonetheless, poets such as William Wordsworth were actively engaged in trying to create a new kind of poetry that emphasized intuition over reason and the pastoral over the urban. Wordsworth defined good poetry as “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings". 
Thus, though many people seize unfairly upon the notion of spontaneity in Romantic Poetry, one must realize that the movement was still greatly concerned with the pain of composition, of translating these emotive responses into the form of Poetry. 

My experiences with Love hasn't really been that great...it was more of downs than ups so to say..My friends from school, college and now at my PG  are well versed with my history. My last relationship sadly took a "dead" end on 24th Jan '06. Since then I have been trying to lead a life, convincing myself that I'm complete on my own..I don't really need a companion to keep me happy. 


Thats not perhaps how God may have planned things for me.


I did encounter someone out here....They say he's self obsessed, he's not intellectually inclined unlike his peers and most importantly he's a player. For me that one moment of our eyes meeting in an uncanny accident (of me falling down) was enough...He's completely oblivious of my existence but I don't really care, after all if you love somebody its not necessary they should love you back! 


My friends keep coaxing me to at least go and talk to him, but you know I'd rather be this way and keep the magic alive!!! There cannot be any substitute for this  feeling I have for him!


The following poem I dedicate it  to all those who fear to Love yet get completely absorbed in the feeling :  








    Words escape  at the moment

As i sit here and write about you...

You have become something special,

very special To Me...in my life and my heart

I fear something might happen...For us meeting could have not been by chance or luck..

Funny how this all started by accident 

(and boy what an accident!),

I take a deep breath and utter four words to my self

Knowing you cannot see what you are doing to me

                 

We are from two differnt worlds

Worlds that are not that far away

I long for your voice, your smile and your embrace

I dream of you every night

At times I can almost feel your thoughts                                        

Imagining the words, the words that mean so much

But will not be heard....

At times I get depressed

For you ignite a light so pure and brillant

And full of innocent emotions

It pierces my heart with such happiness....

 I wish everything to go my way

 I wish all these mixed confusions,  just fade away

I feel alone, but not unloved

And I wonder is this how it was meant to be....

I want to send the feelings to you

That you send to me

But I'm afraid You'll never be alone

Not as long as I'm here For you

I am always near..

No judgments, no worries

Just a sympathic ear...

I dream of kissing you

And being in your arms

And maybe one day I will tell you I LOVE YOU

But again in fear.......... *Sigh*                  

Arabbiata Ambience- (An insight into the Arabic literature and poetic styles)

Synopsis: Arabic literature has a vast history. Emerged in the 6th century with only fragments of the written language, it was the birth of the Qur'an in the 7th century that had the greatest lasting effect on Arabic culture and its literature. Arabic literature flourished during the Islamic Golden Age and continues to the present day.

Arabic poetry too dates back from the 6th century, but during that time oral poetry was the dominance. 

Arabic poetry is categorized into two:

1. Rhymed, or measured, and
2. Prose .                                                                                                                                            

The rhymed poetry falls within fifteen different meters collected and explained by Al-Farahidi in what is known as The Science of Arood. Al-Akhfash, a student of Al-Farahidi, later added one more meter to make them sixteen.  

The meters of the rhythmical poetry are known in Arabic as “بحور” or Seas. The measuring unit of the “seas” is known as “تفعيلة” (taf’ila) with every sea containing a certain number of taf’ilas that the poet has to observe in every verse (bayt) of the poem. The measuring procedure of a poem is very rigorous. Sometimes adding or removing a consonant or a vowel can shift the bayt from one meter to another. Also, in rhymed poetry, every bayt has to end with the same rhyme (qafiya) throughout the poem.

With the expansion of Islam into Persia, the Arabic language was greatly enriched by grammarians and writers of Persian descent. The new converts also made major contributions to Arabic poetry. In the 20th century, there has been a resurgence of Arabic literature and poetry, particularly in Algeria,Egypt, Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon and Palestine.

Poetry in Arabic is traditionally grouped in a diwan or collection of poems. These can be arranged by poet, tribe, topic or the name of the compiler such as the Asma'iyyat of al-Asma'i. Most poems did not have titles and they were usually named from their first lines. Sometimes they were arranged alphabetically by their rhymes. The role of the poet in Arabic developed in a similar way to poets elsewhere. The safe and easy patronage in royal courts was no longer available but a successful poet such as Nizar Qabbani was able to set up his own publishing house.

A large proportion of all Arabic poetry is written using the monorhyme, Qasidah. This is simply the same rhyme used on every line of a poem. While this may seem a poor rhyme scheme for people used to English literature it makes sense in a language like Arabic which has only three vowels which can be either long or short.

In all my previous posts I have always posted a classical poem of the genre I wrote about and translated it, but since this genre is vast..finding an exact excerpt of a particular piece was indeed difficult. 

Im therefore uploading a translated version from a chapter of a series of poetry called Qasidat-Al Burda,wriiten by all time classical Arabic poet Al- Busairi.

Concerning the love of Sayyidina Rasulullah (s)

***

Is it because of your remembrance of the neighbours of Dhi-salam.

That tears mixed with blood are flowing (from your eyes).

Or is it because of the breeze blowing from Kaazimah.

Or it is the lightning struck in the darkness of the night Idam

What has happened to your eyes, (the more) you tell them to stop, the more they continue flowing.

What is the matter with your heart, (the more) you tell it to come to its senses, (the more it is distracted).

Does the lover think that his love can be concealed.

While his eyes are shedding tears and his heart is glowing.

Had it not been for the love, you would not have shed tears at the ruins (of your beloved).

Nor would you become restless at the remembrance of the cypress (tree) the high mountain.

How do you deny love after the testimony.

Borne against you by (such) reliable witnesses as your yours and your illness.

Love has ingrained two lines of fear, and withered your face.

On your cheeks like yellow rose and the reddish tree.

Yes! Thoughts of the beloved came to me at night and kept me awake.

And love transforms pleasure into pain.

O you who reproach me, regarding my love, excuse me.

From me to you if you do justice, you would not reproach me.

My state (of love) has been expressed to you, (now) my secret is no longer concealed.

From those who malign (me), nor is there (something to) check my agony.

You have sincerely advised me , I did not heed it.

For verily a lover is deaf to those who advise him.

I regarded with suspicion the advice of the elders in reproaching me.

(Wisdom) in the advice of the elders is above suspicion.

Confessions Of A Lonely Mind (an anti-climatic INTRODUCTION) - Raina

Synopsis: I have always been somebody who has always been around people, laughing, joking and having fun! I thought these feelings would remain once I left home to step into a new life! Initially it did, but slowly as time passed the same people who once felt incomplete without me being there, are doing just fine without my presence ! Is it me?? or my attitudes that led them to move away from me? or have the new people in their lives become more important?? so much so that I'm shunned each time I open my mouth to speak,...ignored when I want to add on to a conversation or simply say something...I cant express my emotion through anger, it has always been writing...and if that is not permissible, I channelize my anger through tears....I'm called a "cry baby" - someone who cries for smallest of reasons...what people don't realize is for them the reasons maybe small and petty, but it holds an entirely different connotation for someone who values even the smallest of emotions...The once chirpy Raina has sombered down.. I sit amongst them trying to be a part of the crowd I once called my own, but now amidst the crowd I'm all alone.... on the Boulevard of broken dreams....Maybe its a part of growing up, or simply a process of becoming an introvert that I once was in school..who knows??? I share today through this post the Confessions Of A Lonely Mind....

Hate, anger, frustration,

How does one survive?

Confusion, distraught, depression.

Why even be alive?

Screaming, running, sobbing,

Everyone is swarming.

Yelling, crying, dying.

Does someone really care?

I sit alone now,

all by myself with no one else.

They've all left again for good,

And I am once again alone.

I only have friends when

They need a place to hide.

Does that make them love me?

"My basement's always open. . ."

I sit alone again and cry,

For the friends I wish I had,

But will never see.

All I get are words, in threes.

They speak to me softly,

Worry in their faces.

Do they care?

Or are their worry worthless?

It hurts at the end,

As we all know, but

After that we don't

Know how to go.

Why stay here where it's sad,

When you can live happy,

No longer alone,

No longer afraid.....

The Bong Connection

                                                                  




Synopsis: Bengali poetry has always been known for its dramatic interpretation in terms of its elocutionist style from Rabindranath Tagore to Kazi Nazrul Islam to Nachinchandan Sen, Bengal has been one of the greatest contributers in terms of its poetic styles.Such has been the impact of poetry in Bengal that today majority metro stations, streets even buildings are named after these renowned legends! Lets check out a brief history on this magnificent genre.  


Bengal Poetry originated in Pali and other Prakrit socio-cultural traditions. It is antagonistic towards Vedic rituals and laws, which culminated in the Buddhist and Jain movements. However, modern Bengali owes much to Sanskrit.
The history of Bengali poetry underwent three successive stages of development: 

1. Poetry of the early age (like Charyapad), 
2. The Medieval period and
3. The age of modern poetry in1930s.

1.Poetry of the early age (like Charyapad):

Bengali poetry probably began during the 10th century. It is known for the mystic poems called Charyacharyavinishchaya, and sometimes called Charyapad or Charyagiti. These poems were discovered in Nepal's Royal Library by Bengali scholar Mahamahopadhyay Haraprasad Shastri.

2.The Medieval Period :

The Medieval period of Bengali poetry was between 1350 and 1800. It was known as the period of Jayadeva, the renowned 12th century poet from neighboring Orissa who was famous for his poem Gitagovinda.

The period from 1500 to 1800 is known as the Late Middle Bengali Period. During this period, there was a marked influence of Chaitanya, leading to the development of Vaishnava literature. Vaishnava poets include Govinddas and Gyandas.

3.The Modern Age:

The modern age was ushered in by a group of writers who wrote for Kallo, a little magazine founded in 1923. The most popular among this group were Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899–1976) and Mohitolal Majumdar (1888–1952), Achintyakumar Sengupta (1903–1976), Satyendranath Dutta(1882–1922), and Premendra Mitra (1904–1988).

    

With Rabindranath Tagore founding a firm basis for Bengali poetry, the new poets of the early 1920s consciously moved for transcending the frontiers of traditional verses to establishing a realm of truly modern poetry. It was a successful movement that brought permanent change to the structure and theme of poetry. One notable sect of modernists included pro-socialism poets likeSukanta Bhattacharya and Samar Sen.

The poem I'm focusing in this post is Rabindranath Tagore's Gitanjali. Gitanjali is a collection of 103 English poems, largely translations. This volume became very famous in the West, and was widely translated.The word gitanjoli is composed from "git", song, and "anjoli", offering, and thus means - "An offering of songs"; but the word for offering, anjoli, has a strong devotional connotation, so the title may also be interpreted as "prayer offering of song" 

The translations were undertaken prior to a visit to England in 1912, where the poems were extremely well received. A slender volume was published in 1913, with an exhilarating preface by W. B. Yeats. In the same year, based on a corpus of three thin translations, Rabindranath became the first non-European to win the Nobel prize.

The poems of Gitanjali express a largely metaphysical outlook, talking about a union with the "supreme"; but like much western poetry that explores similar themes, the language suggests the union of two earthly lovers. This type of anthropomorphic depiction of celestial love is quite common in the Vaishnava literature of India since the 12th century.

Some poems involve themes related to nature, but here, too, the spiritual is subtly present. Heres presenting poem no 57 which deals with the above style:

আলো আমার আলো ওগো, আলো ভূবন ভরা
আলো নয়ন ধোওয়া আমার আলো হৃদয় হরা ।
নাচে আলো নাচে ও ভাই, আমার প্রাণের কাছে -
বাজে আলো বাজে ও ভাই, হৃদয়বীণার মাঝে
জাগে আকাশ, ছোটে বাতাস, হাসে সকল ধরা ।
আলোর স্রোতে পাল তুলেছে হাজার প্রজাপতি
আলোর ঢেউয়ে উঠল মেতে মল্লিকা মালতী ।                                        
মেঘে মেঘে সোনা, ও ভাই যায়না মানিক গোনা -
পাতায় পাতায় হাসি ও ভাই, পুলক রাশি রাশি ।
সুরনদীর কূল ডুবেছে সুধা-নিঝর-ঝরা।
      - অচলায়তন

Read as: 

Alo amar, alo ogo, alo bhubon bhora

alo noyon dhoa amar, alo hridoe hara.

Nache alo nache, o bhai, amar praner kachhe --
baje alo baje, o bhai, hridoe binar majhe --
jage akash, chhoţe batash, hashe shokol dhora.
Alor srote pal tulechhe hajar projapoti.
Alor đheue uţhlo mete mollika maloti.
Meghe meghe shona, o bhai, jae na manik gona --
patae patae hashi, o bhai, pulok rashi rashi.
Shuronodir kul ḍubechhe shudha-nijhor-jhora.
      -Ocholaeoton

Translation:

Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light!

Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.

The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.

The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion.

Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.


source: wikepedia :)