The hero a poem by Nobel laurate Rabindranath Tagore. This is really a very very interesting poem by Rabindranath Tagore where he is with his mother and he’s protecting his mother in his childhood the hero that’s why he become the hero just suppose for once I was traveling with my mother in a foreign land and going to a faraway place Mother, you are in a baloni with his door slightly open and I was cantering alone on a chestnut horse raising clouds of dust. When in the west the sun set and it was evening, it seemed we had reached the vast plane where twin pawns are. Wherever we looked, it was utterly empty and dark. There was not even a single man or beast. And mother, this seems to have made you afraid. And you thought, to what strange place have we come? I said, mother, don’t fear. See, yonder is the bed of the dead river. That wild country was covered with weeds, and the road had taken a turn at its midst. No cattle were gazing there. As soon as it was evening, they had left for the village. Who knows whether we are bound for nothing was visible in the dark. Just then you told me mother. Oh, what light I see near those pawns all on a sudden. Oh who were there shouting and raising a hula in fear you were praying in your palanki. Its bearers had fled to the nearby bush were trembling in fear in their hiding place. I called out loud, “Mother, mother, why do you fear? I am here.” They had heavy clubs in their hands, thick dissolved hair on their hands and jabba flowers stuck in their ears. I told them, “Beware. See my sword is here. Take one more step forward. I will cut you off into pieces. In reply, they jumped up. With long sticks in their hands and hair all wild about their heads, they come nearer and nearer.
I shout, “Have a care! you villains! One step more and you are dead men.”
They give another terrible yell and rush forward.
You clutch my hand and say, “Dear boy, for heaven’s sake, keep away from them.”
I say, “Mother, just you watch me.”
Then I spur my horse for a wild gallop, and my sword and buckler clash against each other.
The fight becomes so fearful, mother, that it would give you a cold shudder could you see it from your palanquin.
Many of them fly, and a great number are cut to pieces.
I know you are thinking, sitting all by yourself, that your boy must be dead by this time.
But I come to you all stained with blood, and say, “Mother, the fight is over now.”
You come out and kiss me, pressing me to your heart, and you say to yourself,
“I don’t know what I should do if I hadn’t my boy to escort me.”
A thousand useless things happen day after day, and why couldn’t such a thing come true by chance?
It would be like a story in a book.
My brother would say, “Is it possible? I always thought he was so delicate!”
Our village people would all say in amazement, “Was it not lucky that the boy was with his mother?”