A note on: "The Post Office", by Rabindranath Tagore

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 In his play, "The Post Office" [translated by Devabrata Mukherjee from Rabindranath Tagore's original in Bengali, "Dak Ghara"], Tagore shows the joy spread by the innocence in a child. The biggest treasure that a person unknowingly loses in his journey of life is the innocence of his childhood. It is the only thing everyone is equally gifted with. The longer one keeps it, the longer he is in peace. This temporal joy withers down as consciousness and conceit overwhelms innocence, making it lost in a deluge of deception. The tender minds of children are blessed with assorted blends of curiosity, optimism and boundless imagination. Children are unparalleled in their musings, and their perceptions are slick with deep reflections of optimism. Amal's portrayal of a hill as a beckoning figure, rather than as an obstruction that prevents his dreams from reaching the other side of the hill, is the best evident example from the play. Indeed the abrupt and sad ending of the play shoulders the weight of the terrible experience of Tagore in losing his kindred to fate. The sudden ending, though surprising, is similar to the unwarranted arrival of death. Apart from this melancholia that lingers throughout, the play is rich in the beauty of rural life and subtle undertones that criticize cultural and societal blandishments. 

The play, simple in script and language, although, has deep roots in tenacious ideology. Some ideas are similar to the ones Tagore has presented in Gitanjali. He writes in Gitanjali:

"We have no time to lose, and having no time, we must scramble for our chances. We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by, while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut; but I find that yet there is time."                                                                                                              -Gitanjali, 82.

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The herald of good future, though, in the play, arrives late. Even for a soul as innocent as Amal, fate does not show mercy. The village doctor and the Headman, donning the relatively villainous roles are metaphored to elicit deeper meanings outside the script of the play. The unfortunate repercussions of enacting this play, in politically volatile times and places, support this fact.

Personally, the play reminded me of my childhood days, most of which, ironically, I don't remember now because I was completely lost then - lost in a good sense - lost in the moments. The simple delight of being able to reach the lowest branch of a tree in the backyard was cherished often as the realization of a long-persisting dream. The disorderly but sweet percussion, which the raindrops created when they hit the foliage of trees around me, blended nicely with the shushed hymns that the leaves sang in unison as they swayed in the wind, and unfolded before me an orchestra that swept me off my feet. I used to float in the air with my face up, hands spread out and legs loose, and watch the trees and the sky revolve around me, the initial clarity gradually swirling around to an indistinct whirlpool of light engulfing me. 

The play gave me a beautiful replay of my childhood days, when hours and days were spent in such mirthful outings with nature. It also highlights the contrast between innocent optimism and prejudiced pessimism. This work of Tagore's is a wonderful one, which leaves the reader thoughtful and pondering over his childhood days.