A place of peace

What's in a name, did you say ? Ask Amartya Sen, "Priyadarshini" Indira Gandhi or Mahatma Gandhi. He named them all. To Gandhiji, he said, "You are the great soul of India, the Mahatma". The most beautiful girl in her class, Indira was named Priyadarshini. And the lady who brought her three-month old son to be named by him, was told, "Let his name be Amartya, for his name will not die." Ask the Koreans, too. He called Korea "The Land of Morning Calm". A man of many names was Kabiguru, Gurudev, Rabindranath Tagore.

These were among the many anecdotes I heard as I wandered through Santiniketan - a place of peace - where Tagore founded his Viswa Bharati in 1921. Today, thousands of students - young and old, Indian and foreign - sit in circles under leafy trees, while teachers conduct classes in a truly "open" atmosphere. Other classes for under-graduates, graduates and research students are held in buildings that are often artistic creations in themselves. All over the campus - at Pattho-bhavan, and Kala-bhavan, at Uttarayan and hostels - lie boards that announce "Historical site".

Interesting that a man who studied only up to class 8 - not even O levels - could create such a university. Tagore also had a history of quitting schools after 3 or 4 days. Being the grandson of the great zamindar Dwarkanath Tagore, young Rabindranath was allowed the liberty of walking out of schools, even St. Xavier's after 1 day. One school he stayed for some time was the one run by Iswar Chandra Vidyasagar, one of the great men of India at that time.

Though he was pampered by his father, young Rabindranath was afraid to go to Santiniketan with him :he was afraid that his father would put him into a school in that far-away place. Santiniketan had been founded by Debendranath, after he had reached there by mistake.

One day in 1890, the zamindar of the area, Birbhum had invited Debendranath home. A boat-ride from Calcutta, then the customary palki. Suddenly, they realized they were lost, in a huge forest. Debendranath alighted, and spotting a large Chaitam tree, decided to meditate. Out of the darkness, a vision of a great place came to him. This led him to buy up all the neighbouring land and start a small township: Santiniketan.

Years later, Rabindranath would make his vision come true. With borrowed money, 4 teachers, and 5 students, he started a school under the same tree. Over the years, with funding from various sources - including 60,000 from Gandhi, 200 ounces of gold from Rabindranath's wife - it prospered. Today, every graduate receives at convocation, a leaf of the Chaitam tree as a memento. Not from the same tree under which Debendranath saw his vision and Rabindranath started his school; that was blown away during a storm in the 60s, but from a similar one that stands today in the same place, harking back to the old times.

A kilometre away lies the house of the Sens. Amartya's mother stays there now, and passing tourists pause to pose for pictures at the gate, beside the board that reads "A.T. Sen", not Amartya, but his grand-father. Nandalal Bose's house stands nearby. The grand old man of Bengali art is long dead, but his art lives even in the buildings here. The walls of the Teacher's Room are adorned by his paintings. Indian myths, Buddha's birth, rural scenes, a Santhal woman - all lie trapped behind modern glass protecting ancient traditions.

Art and sculpture lie scattered among the buildings, some almost camouflaged by the trees and bushes. The black building of dance inspires its students with the dancers on the walls, created by artists from various countries. Ramkinkar's creations of tribal scenes - in a mix of stone, cement, iron - stand in the open air, frozen in time : they could have been made last year or a thousand years ago. The Buddha smiles serenely as we pass by; a 10-ft Gandhi with his walking-stick, walks eternally forward. Other sculptures from waste materials pose questions, as relevant now as when created.

As we walk around the campus, other names drop in, bringing the past alive. This is where Balraj Sahni stayed for a few months, says the guide, appealing to the filmi section of the crowd. This is where Rabindranath taught music to Satyajit Ray, who went on to direct the music of many of his great films. Here is where Subhas Bose came to tell Tagore that he had quit the Congress presidency - as Tagore had advised. Here, in this house, most of Gitanjali was written. And that house, he stayed for just a few days, and moved on. He stayed in 11 houses here, moving from one to another whenever the fancy seized him.

We have reached the hostels and the fields. The one donated by Goenka, the next by Birla. And this is the girls' hostel, the path that Indira would sweep every morning, says the guide, making the crowd laugh. Cows graze in the huge football fields, birds in their wake picking up the bugs kicked up by the hooves. In the distance, a helicopter drones, taking the Governor back to Calcutta after his short visit to Santiniketan. ( He is the Dean of Viswa-Bharati, an institute that has the Prime Minister as its Chancellor. ) The first time someone had come here on a helicopter, they had cut down some trees - and invited the President's wrath.

As I wait in the station the next day to return to Calcutta, I find a room called the Rabindra Museum, with a collection of pictures : Rabindranath with Einstein, Gandhi, Freud, Nehru, Tilak, Bose; Rabindranath in Sweden, France, Tokyo, London; the Mahatma and Kasturba at Santiniketan, Nehru teaching, Tagore attending Sylvain's class. The edges of the pictures fraying, the black and white pictures gently covered in gray dust. Outside, the station walls are decorated with his poetry, appropriately enough about trains, about waiting and leaving.

Across the tracks, littered with earthen and plastic cups, and tetra-paks, the wall is covered by a montage. Fragments of his poetry, and illustrations light up the wall. I read my favourite lines : Chitta jetha bhoy-shunno, Uccha jetha shir ( Where the mind is without fear, and the head is held high) and recall the rest, ending in "Into that world of freedom, my Father, let my country awake."

Moved, with a lump in my throat, I look down. A little boy is sitting on the platform, selling periodicals and newspapers. He flips through the magazines, looking at the glossy pictures, for he cannot read.