Rabindranath Tagore’s poem “The Flute” stands as one of the most beloved and poignant creations in Bengali literature. At its heart, the poem unveils the innermost sorrows of the human spirit, its solitude, and the quiet tremors of life’s most fragile moments. Like the music of a flute—simple yet profound—the language and rhythm of the poem resonate deeply, effortlessly drawing the reader into an intimate inner world.
The flute, in this poem, is not merely a musical instrument; rather, it is a symbol of the human soul itself. Its melodies stir within us the full spectrum of life—joy and sorrow, hope and despair, love and separation. Through this humble reed, Tagore speaks of the soul’s deepest longings and emotions, crafting a spiritual communion that transcends the limitations of speech.
Though the language of “The Flute” flows with gentle simplicity, the thought and form within it carry immense depth. It invites the reader to experience a contemplative harmony with life and with human connection. Tagore’s seamless blending of nature and human emotion reaches a sublime clarity in this work, rendering “The Flute” an exquisite gem within the treasure trove of Bengali literature.
A work of lyrical purity and spiritual resonance, it remains an eternal offering from the poet’s soul to the world’s heart.
The Flute
By Rabindranath Tagore
Kinu the milkman’s narrow lane,
A two-storey house—
On the lower floor, barred with iron grills,
The room opens to the roadside plain.
The salt-worn wall crumbles in places,
Elsewhere, mould stains trace their pain.
A print of Ganesh—God of Grace—
From American cloth,
Stuck upon the door in this forsaken space.
Save for me, one other dwells
Within this rented, cheerless cell—
A lizard.
That’s the only soul I share it with,
But unlike me, it never hungers.
Twenty-five rupees my monthly pay,
The youngest clerk in a merchant’s bay.
I earn my meals by tutoring
At the Datta household, evening to day.
Come sundown, I linger at Sealdah Station—
To spare the cost of evening’s light.
Engines rumble, whistles cry,
Passengers rush, porters shout,
Until half past ten at night.
Then home I come to silent dark—
No lamp, no sound, no spark.
By the banks of the Dhaleshwari flows
My aunts’ old village, veiled in repose.
There, I was to wed my uncle’s child—
A girl of quiet fate and eyes beguiled.
The stars approved the wedding hour—
So sure, so fated, so precise.
Yet on that very hour, I fled—
She was saved.
And me? I paid the price.
She never came to this dull room,
But in my thoughts, she drifts and blooms—
In a Dhakai sari, vermilion bright
Upon her brow like sacred light.
Now monsoon thickens, heavy, grey—
Tram fares rise and wages sway.
Often my pay is docked or lost.
At each dark corner of the lane
Rotting peels of mangoes lie,
Jackfruit skins, fish bones dry,
A dead cat’s kitten, refuse tossed—
And other things best left unnamed.
My umbrella’s like my salary—
Thin and pierced in many a place.
My office garb, forever damp,
Much like Gopikanta’s grace—
His moods forever soaked in sap.
The shadows of the rainy day
Creep into my clammy, stifled den
Like a wounded beast it writhes and lays
Still, numb, and broken in its pen.
And night or day—it matters not—
Some half-dead weight
Has bound me fast
To this world’s rotting, wretched lot.
At the lane’s end lives Kantababu—
Hair well-oiled and neatly tied,
Eyes large, manner dignified,
A man of taste, he plays the cornet too.
Now and then, from nowhere it seems,
Music rises in this nightmare street—
At midnight deep, or dawn’s dim gleam,
Or twilight’s flicker, flickering sweet.
And suddenly the Sindhu raga sighs,
Its mournful notes arise—
And all the heavens echo long
With sorrow born before all time.
And in that moment, all feels false—
This lane, this life, unbearable as
A madman’s senseless, drunken song.
Then suddenly, within my mind,
No difference I can find—
Between clerk Haripada’s fate
And that of Emperor Akbar the Great.
Along the flute’s lamenting breath,
My tattered umbrella and his royal crest
Seem bound together, journeying west—
Toward a Heaven unseen, yet blessed.
Where this song becomes the only truth
In twilight’s eternal, wordless youth,
There flows the Dhaleshwari still,
Its banks with tamal shadows filled.
And there, beneath the dusky skies,
In quiet courtyard shade she waits—
The girl in a Dhakai sari clad,
Vermilion glowing on her brow,
Eternal as love that fate once had.