Rabindra Museum, Mungpoo: Where the wheel of clock has stopped

I had long wanted to visit Rabindranath Tagore's Museum at Mungpoo but was not able to do so. It was only on my recent third trip to Mungpoo. I could make my way to one of the historical museums of our hills. We, the staff from Sakyong Chisopani JHS, attended the funeral of our senior staff, Mrs. Geeta Pradhan's father to Mungpoo. 

I had in mind that this time, I needed to visit the museum, so I made my Headmaster and other staff agree that we should visit the Rabindranath Museum. On our return to Singtam, after visiting Mrs. Pradhan’s house, we all visited this museum.

Despite the drizzle, my enthusiasm to look inside the house drove me crazy. A locked gate welcomed us as we approached the museum; it was enough to give me a setback. A shout from the gate of the Government Quinine Factory nearby caught our attention, and we were told to stay back. That person gave a call from his mobile and shouted to us. He had informed the caretaker about our visit, and a man in his 40s came rushing towards us. He was Sisir Rawat, a Nepali caretaker of the museum.  I was the first to greet him, and in his Bengali accent, he said, “Bengal time ho, yestai chha.” he was referring to his absence. He opened the gate, and we all entered the house's premises where Rabindranath Tagore, one of the celebrated sons of India, stayed in his dying days.

He introduced himself, ‘I am Sisir, a third-generation caretaker of this museum, and I don’t know whether my son will follow this tradition. ' In his words, he seemed more proud that he had been following a family tradition and enjoyed doing it.

We reached the entrance door; I could read the signboard placed near the door that said, “Open your shoes”. I took no time to take off my socks; I just wanted to feel the aura of the floor inside the bungalow. Sisir opened the bungalow door, and the first thing we saw was an armchair with Rabindranath Tagore's photo frame facing us. Floral designs were painted on the wooden plank floor, and a few flowers were offered to pay respect to the poet.

Sisir, the experienced guide caretaker, told us it was from the place the poet used to have the view of the place around. Thou, on that day, the cold climate and fog kept us away from what Rabindranath Tagore might have encountered, which brought him four times to this beautiful locale, far from the madding crowd of Calcutta, now Kolkata.  I was listening to our guide’s words; he was fluent in his saying, and how he was uttering words with his eyes closed made me think that apart from Rabindranath Tagore’s tale, he did not have his personal life.

He was speaking without being interrupted by our staff. He made us enter a small dark room with the hours of daylight partially entering inside. The atmosphere was different from the usual classroom we teachers face every day, except for a few flashes of the mobile camera to capture the moment around. Out there, we were his students, and we silently listened to him, as we expect our students to do so when we are narrating something

Rabindranath Tagore, also popular as Gurudev, the first Indian to receive the prestigious Nobel Prize, 1938-40 had visited Mungpoo four times (21st May 1938, 24th May 1939, 12th Sept. 1939, and 21st August 1940) and on each visit, he had his stay at the very bungalow where we were standing. Our guide told us he had stayed there for more than months on each occasion. 

Our guide pointed towards the series of old photographs hung on the wall, narrating legends related to them. The photographs seemed to weather out, some faded. I was surprised the museum, one of its kind, was losing its charm. With cracks around not yet filled, no power supply inside the bungalow, and the pathetic condition of the valued rare photographs, I did not expect at all.

The bungalow used to be the official residence of Maitreyi Devi, a famed poet and close aide of Rabindranath Tagore, who considered Maitreyi Devi her daughter. Maitreyi Devi’s husband, Manmohan Sen, was then working at the Government Quinine Factory. After the death of Rabindranath Tagore, the bungalow was given heritage status, and his belongings became a worldwide property for his admirers.

With his eyes closed, our guide kept on narrating the stories, which had to be documented, I believe after him the legend of Rabindranath Tagore and his stay at Mungpoo might be lost forever. He even recited a few lines of Tagore's Bengali poem ‘Janmodin’ that he had written on his 40^th birthday at Mungpoo. Pointing at one of the nearly faded photographs, Sisir said he was the father of Amartya Sen, another Bengal Nobel laureate. We just said to ourselves. Oh!

A wooden box bed opposite the wall with decorated framed photographs was Gurudev's actual bed, which he had used during his stay there. The unusual thing about the bed was it had back support, which is rarely used even today. Our guide added the bed was made by Tagore's son. A wrinkled white bed sheet with a half-bust of Tagore placed on it, I felt petty and, at the same time, delighted to touch the bed. I asked my colleague Sumit to capture my moment with the bed. I asked myself if we were allowed elsewhere too close to the object of historical importance.

Just then, I received a call from Suni, my wife, and I made my way outside the lawn, looking for a better signal. What I missed in between the words of our guide was narration about a kitchen that used to be outside the bungalow. Through the glass window, he showed our staff that the vacant place had to be brought down due to a lack of funds to restore it.  

As we entered the room further, we came across another room with Tagore's painting (not the original one but reprinted) hanging on the wall. To its center, inside a glass box, there was a display of letters the poet had written from Mungpoo and had received. The wall was covered with laminated rough papers of Tagore that he had used while writing poems.

To its left was a bathtub, but I found it too small for the size of Tagore I had seen in photographs. We followed our guide one room after another; we came across printed paintings of the poet decorating the room, whose fascination with painting had grown in his later years. 

The last part of the museum, the study room, was the biggest highlight of the bungalow. It was an awe-inspiring feel to imagine that I could someday write down my name at the visitor book of the museum on the table that was used by Rabindranath Tagore, my way of existence seems to shy away.