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By Rabindranath Tagore

The letters translated during this booklet span the most efficient interval of my literary existence, while, due to nice success, i used to be younger and no more identified. From the advent.

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Not that the prospect is always of particular interest--a yellowish sandbank, innocent of grass or tree, stretches away; an empty boat is tied to its edge; the bluish water, of the same shade as the hazy sky, flows past; yet I cannot tell how it moves me. I suspect that the old desires and longings of my servant-ridden childhood--when in the solitary imprisonment of my room I pored over the Arabian Nights, and shared with Sinbad the Sailor his adventures in many a strange land--are not yet dead within me, but are Glimpses of Bengal 37 roused at the sight of any empty boat tied to a sand-bank.

Certainly not to entertain us, nor to distract the pining lover[1]--it must have some personal purpose of its own. But, sadly enough, that purpose never seems to get fulfilled. Yet it is not down-hearted, and its Coo-oo! Coo-oo! keeps going, with now and then an ultra-fervent trill. What can it mean? ] Glimpses of Bengal 33 And then in the distance there is some other bird with only a faint chuck-chuck that has no energy or enthusiasm, as if all hope were lost; none the less, from within some shady nook it cannot resist uttering this little plaint: chuck, chuck, chuck.

As I sat in a corner of the drawing-room after dinner, everything round me looked blurred to my eyes. I seemed to be seated by the head of my great, insulted Motherland, who lay there in the dust before me, disconsolate, shorn of her glory. I cannot tell what a profound distress overpowered my Glimpses of Bengal 46 heart. How incongruous seemed the mem-sahibs there, in their evening-dresses, the hum of English conversation, and the ripples of laughter! How richly true for us is our India of the ages; how cheap and false the hollow courtesies of an English dinner-party!

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