తోరుదత్ విద్యాభ్యాసమంతా తండ్రి సంరక్షణలోనే జరిగింది. 14వ ఏట తనూ, తన అక్క అరుణిమ ఫ్రాన్సుదేశం
వెళ్ళేదాకా ఏ బడిలోనూ చదువుకో లేదు. కాని ఇంగ్లాండు, ఇటలీ, ఫ్రాన్సు దేశాల పర్యటనా, ఫ్రెంచి భాషతో
పరిచయములతో, అక్కచెల్లెళ్ళిద్దరికీ తల్లి దండ్రులదగ్గరనుండి వారసత్వంగా వచ్చిన సాహిత్యాభిలాష మొగ్గతొడిగింది.
మొదటిసారిగా ఇద్దరూ కలిసి The Sheaf Gleamed in French Fields అన్న ఫ్రెంచిలోనుండి అనువాదాలు తీసుకువచ్చారు.
దాన్ని చూసే Edmund Gosse ముగ్ధుడైపోయాడు. కలకత్తా తిరిగివచ్చేక వాళ్ళిద్దరూ కలిసి ఒక నవలరాద్దామనుకున్నారు.
నవలయితే రాయడం జరిగింది గాని, ఈలోగా 23 జులై 1874న అక్క క్షయవ్యాధితో మరణించింది. మరో మూడేళ్ళు
మాత్రమే బ్రతికి తనుకూడా ఆ క్షయవ్యాధికే బలయిపోయింది. అయితే మరణించేనాటికి తన అసంఖ్యాకమైన
ఇంగ్లీషుకవితలతో బాటూ ఇంగ్లీషులోఒకటీ, ఫ్రెంచిలోఒకటీ నవలలూ, భారతీయ జానపదసాహిత్యం నుండి సేకరించిన
కొన్ని పాటలూ మిగిల్చిపోయిందామె.
పై కవితలో చిన్నప్పుడు తనూ, అక్క అరుణిమ, తమ్ముడు అబ్జు ఆడుకున్న సరుగుడుచెట్టుని సాహిత్యం లో శాశ్వతంగా
నిలుపుతూ దానిచుట్టూ తన అనుభవాలనీ, తనకోరికనీ ప్రకటించింది.
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Our Casuarina Tree
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Like a huge Python, winding round and round The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars, Up to its very summit near the stars, A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound No other tree could live. But gallantly The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung In crimson clusters all the boughs among, Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee; And oft at nights the garden overflows With one sweet song that seems to have no close, Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.
When first my casement is wide open thrown At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest; Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crest A gray baboon sits statue-like alone Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs His puny offspring leap about and play; And far and near kokilas hail the day; And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows; And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast, The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.
But not because of its magnificence Dear is the Casuarina to my soul: Beneath it we have played; though years may roll, O sweet companions, loved with love intense, For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear. Blent with your images, it shall arise In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes! What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach? It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech, That haply to the unknown land may reach.
Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith! Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay, When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith And the waves gently kissed the classic shore Of France or Italy, beneath the moon, When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon: And every time the music rose,—before Mine inner vision rose a form sublime, Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.
Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose,— Dearer than life to me, alas, were they! Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done With deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale, Under whose awful branches lingered pale “Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton, And Time the shadow;” and though weak the verse That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse, May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse.
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Toru Dutt
(4 March, 1856 – August 30, 1877)
Indian Poet, Novelist, and Translator.
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Toru Dutt was a poet, essayist, novelist and a translator. Her education was largely confined to home and under the tutelage of her father, but for a brief period in France when she attended school for the first time at 14. Her education in the continent and the tour of Italy and England left an indelible mark on her and her literary interests which started with the translation of French Sonnets into English (A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields) with her sister continued after she returned to Calcutta. She left behind a great volume of poetry and 2 unpublished Novels one each in French (Le Journal de Mademoiselle d’Arvers) and English (Bianca or The Young Spanish Maiden) at the time of her death besides Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan.
In the present poem she commemorates the loss of her siblings and the tree under which they played together.
Without this touching biographical sketch, I think this introduction will not be complete. Her father recounted what a wonderful memory she had: whenever there was a dispute between the significance of a word or phrase arose between the father and daughter, occasionally, the father used to wager a rupee before they referred a dictionary to settle the question. She was invariably right on most occasions. But in cases when she went wrong, first she would smile brightly, then her thin fingers would pat his grizzled cheeks, and she would end up it all with a quotation of her favorite poetess Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning: ‘Ah, my gossip, you are older and more learned, and a man!’ or some such thing.
