You say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I don’t
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can’t father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to  call him
a hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father’s room, you come and call me,
“What a naughty child!”
If I make the slightest noise you say, “Don’t you see that
father’s at his work?”
What’s the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father’s pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don’t
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
“Child, how troublesome you are!”
What do you think of father’s spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?

Rabindranath Tagore’s poem “Authorship” portrays the naive and inquisitive viewpoint of a young kid watching their father write. The boy starts off by admitting that his father is a prolific writer, but he also admits that he doesn’t fully comprehend what he writes. The youngster tells the story of an evening when the father read aloud, but the child didn’t understand what he was reading.

The child says that she wishes her mother would tell her stories about giants, fairies, and princesses. The young one wonders if the father had lost track of such wonderful stories from his own mother. The youngster also observes the father’s seeming indifference to time, as seen by his tardiness for a bath and the frequent calls he receives from the mother.

The father is portrayed in the poem as being completely absorbed in his writing and frequently ignoring other obligations. The father is characterised as someone who “plays at making books,” highlighting the child’s belief that the father uses writing as a kind of play. But the mother disapproves of the child’s attempts, even with basic letters, to write like their father. The mother’s tolerance of the father’s considerable usage of paper for his works contrasts sharply with her displeasure.

The child wonders about the joy and purpose of his father’s constant writing and queries the importance of it all. The child finds it confusing that although the mother chastises him for using only one sheet of paper to make a paper boat, she doesn’t mind the father using multiple sheets for his work.

Ultimately, the poem explores the child’s critical and inquisitive mind while delving into topics of creativity, family dynamics, and the divergent perspectives on the father’s writing within the family. It is a moving meditation on the child’s attempt to understand the significance and motivation behind the father’s enigmatic and seemingly never-ending creative endeavours.