Yesterday, I spent my entire afternoon at Thakurbaari, the place where Rabindranath Tagore was born and took his last breath. It resembles a movie set. Photography inside is not permitted. Standing on the top floor, gazing at the sprawling mansion, I could almost envision hundreds of people bustling through Thakurbaari during its heyday—the kitchen, the linens, the low-sitting dining table. Everything feels like a fairy tale. Not the Cinderella kind, but one where people save each other and themselves—without a prince or a damsel in distress.

The long staircases made me imagine young men and women walking up and down. There must have been love stories too, but who knows? When so many people live together, anger, jealousy, and hurt inevitably surface as well.

I thought about the many artists who lived there, including Tagore’s brother, and the “who’s who” who visited Thakurbaari—the foreign travels, the dresses that became iconic in Bengal. It takes a lot to shape a Tagore, the Nobel laureate. This house provided that foundation for him.

I thought of his wife, Mrinalini Devi, who married him at the age of seven. She must have played with him as a child before becoming his wife. When you’re married to a man who belongs to the world—loved, respected, and adored—did she ever wonder if she was enough for him? Did she ever try to claim him for herself, as a woman might for a man? Much has been written about them, but the dead never speak. So, we’ll never know whether, while cooking a fine meal in her kitchen, she grieved that her husband belonged more to the world than to her. Who knows? The dead never speak. We can only speculate.

I thought of his son. Men share a different psyche with their fathers than daughters do. No matter where he went, his father was always the subject of conversation. Did he ever feel he could never measure up? Did his father’s towering legacy overshadow him? Every human has their dark moments. Did he long for a father who took such long trips abroad? Did he simply want a father present in his life? As time passes, great men become stories, and Tagore became an international heritage. The house turned into a state museum. Did he ever miss his home at times—or just a normal life? I wonder.

The place is stunning. Every room holds a piece of Tagore. But I sat down and looked beyond the man. I wondered what it meant to have a man like him as a father or husband—and at what cost.

I’ll have to visit again. Who knows? Someday, the dead might start speaking after all.

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