Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Bipradas expected no softening of the mood after this. But he felt deeply distressed inside. He went and stretched himself on the easy chair in the railway waiting room.

  It was a winter evening and it was getting dark. The up train was announced and the station was lit up. Bipradas let the horse ride on its own. He reached home fairly late at night. He did not tell anyone where he had been and what had transpired between him and Kumu’s groom-to-be.

  He caught a chill that night. The cough grew worse. The more he neglected it the worse it got. Kumu had to force him to rest in bed. So all the arrangements were left to Nabagopal.

  16

  A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER NABAGOPAL TURNED UP AND SAID TO BIPRADAS, ‘I need your advice. Please tell me what I should do.’ Bipradas got worried. He asked, ‘Why? Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘They have brought along with them a few white men, must be touts or vendors of foreign liqour. Yesterday they killed at least a couple of hundred snipes at the Pirpur shoal. As you are well aware, during these winter months birds come in large numbers. I think there is going to be a killing of living creatures on a massive scale by these visitors. Enough to appease all the demons in our mythology like Ahiravana and Mahiravana, Hidimba and Ghatotkach right up to the huge Kumbhakarna. Even in Hell, the ten jaws of the ten-headed Ravana would tire of chewing so much flesh.’

  Bipradas was stunned. He could not utter a word.

  Nabagopal continued, ‘It was your order that no one should hunt in that marshland. You even stopped the District Magistrate from doing so. We had feared that he might shoot you for a swan. He was a gentleman so he went away quietly. But these people do not care if it is a deer, a cow or a Brahmin. Still, if you just say one word . . .’

  Bipradas quickly stopped him, ‘No! No, don’t say anything to them.’

  Bipradas had been the best shot at tigers in the whole district, but later once when he shot a bird he was filled with so much revulsion that he stopped all shooting of birds within his territory.

  All this while Kumu had been standing behind him, stroking his hair. As soon as Nabagopal left she said sternly, ‘Dada, you must stop them.’

  ‘Stop them from doing what?’

  ‘From killing birds.’

  ‘Kumu, they will misunderstand us and then defy us.’

  ‘Let them misunderstand. Pride is not their monopoly.’

  Bipradas looked at her and smiled within himself. He knew how scrupulously she was trying to follow the code of the satis—the ideal Hindu wives. Chhayeb anugata swachchha—to follow the husband willingly like a shadow. Should there be a split between the shadow and the body over the life of an insignificant bird?

  ‘Don’ t lose your temper, Kumu. I too killed birds once. I did not realize then that it was wrong. They are still at that stage.’

  So the shooting and the picnics went on in full swing. A band played music and there was dancing for the English guests in the evenings, tennis in the afternoons and occasional sailing regattas. The villagers thronged to watch the fun and sights they had never seen before. At night after dinner there was loud singing of ‘For he is a jolly good fellow’.

  What impressed the people most was that the main players in these festivities were all English men and women. It was a rare sight to see them with their fishing rods and sola hats.The local show put up by the Chatterjees by way of fencing with lathis, wrestling, rowing, jatras and amateur theatre, was nothing in comparison, even when four elephants were thrown in to liven things up.

  A couple of days before the wedding was the ritual of the holy turmeric bath. The splendour and range of presents, from heavy jewellery to expensive dolls, from the groom’s side, held everyone spellbound. The Chatterjees did their best to tip the carriers handsomely.

  This unspoken battle between the Ghoshals and the Chatterjees entered its penultimate round with the feeding of the public. The entire locality was invited by beating of drums to dinner at Madhupuri by the banks of Madhusagar. Nabagopal was livid. ‘We are the zamindars. How dare he put up this so-called Madhupuri here!’ he fumed.

  The arrangements for the public banquet were widely visible. It was no ordinary meal. Fish, cream and curds, sandesh, ghee, flour and sugar were imported to Madhupur with much clamour. Huge fires were lit, cooking utensils of all shapes and sizes from small pans to large pots, water carriers and wide platters were spread out. Rows of bullock carts continued to bring in potatoes, brinjals, raw plantains and vegetables of all kinds. The banquet was to be held in the evening in a blaze of lights.

  The Chatterjees, on the other hand, had arranged for lunch. The ryots had come in large numbers and arranged everything. Separate seating arrangements had been made for Hindus and Muslims. The Muslim tenants were in the majority—they had started cooking at the crack of dawn. Regardless of the menu for the feast, the cheering that went on in praise of the Chatterjees was vociferous. Nabagopal personally looked after the guests and did not have his own meal till five in the evening when the last guest left. Then began the feeding of the poor. The senior ryots themselves took charge of this distribution. The air was rent with tumultous cries in favour of their benefactors.

  At Madhupuri, cooking went on for the whole day. The tempting aroma of food filled the air. Mountains of earthen plates and cups as well as banana leaves were heaped up. Crows incessantly quarrelled over piles of leftover fish and vegetables, the dogs of the area were engaged in noisy fights. In good time the lights went up. A native orchestra from Metiaburuz played a whole range of ragas—from Imankalyan to Kedara till nightfall. Anxious attendants came from time to time to whisper into the Rajabahadur’s ears, that not many guests had turned up till then. It was the day of the weekly fair, so some of the shoppers from distant villages took the opportunity to sit down to a free and generously given meal. There were a few indigent beggars as well.

  Madhusudan retired to his solitary tent and let out a growl: ‘Hmph.’

  A younger brother, Radhu, came and said, ‘Enough is enough, Dada, let’s go.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Let’s go back to Calcutta. These people are not playing fair. There are brides from better families who are only waiting for you to beckon them with your little finger.’

  Madhusudan roared, ‘Go away!’

  A century-old event repeated itself. One party’s ostentatiousness was sky high, but the other party waylaid the procession. However the net loss and gain in such matters are never apparent. That domain remains very private.

  The tenants of the Chatterjees had a good laugh. Bipradas was lying ill in bed and unaware of all that had happened.

  17

  THE RAJA HAD FORBIDDEN ANY CELEBRATION ON THE WAY TO THE BRIDE’S house for the wedding. So, there were no lights, no music—just two of their family priests and a couple of eulogists. The groom arrived quietly in his palanquin. Nobody knew of his arrival until he alighted from his palanquin. But in Madhupuri the groom’s party were merrymaking noisily with food and drink. Nabagopal saw it as a retort on their part. Usually the girl’s family welcomes the boy’s family with folded hands. But Nabagopal did nothing of the sort. He did not even ask about the rest of the groom’s party.

  Kumudini, dressed for her wedding, came to say goodbye to her brother. She was trembling all over. Bipradas’s fever was over hundred and five degrees; he had a balm of mustard and rye on his chest and back. Kumudini put her head down on his feet and broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Aunt Kshema tried to calm her, ‘Please Kumu, you must not cry like this. It is not done.’

  Bipradas tried to sit up a little and looked at her face for a long time, tears streaming down his own face. Kshema said, ‘It’s time to go.’

  Bipradas put his hand on Kumu’s head and blessed her in a choked voice, ‘Let the all-merciful God bless you,’ and then fell back on his bed.

  All through the wedding ceremony tears rolled down Kumu’s face. The hand that she put in the groom’s hand was icy cold, and trembling. And when the tim
e came for the two of them to exchange glances, did she look at her husband at all? Maybe she didn’t. The behaviour her groom’s side had exhibited in the last few days made her somewhat frightened of her husband. Like a bird which feels it had lost its nest for a cage.

  Madhusudan was by no means ugly, but his looks were stern. The first thing one noticed in his dark face was a long curved beak-like nose standing guard over his lips. The wide sloping forehead seemed to have swollen till it met the dam of a pair of thick eyebrows. The gaze of the narrow eyes under the shadow of those eyebrows was piercing. The face was cleanshaven, the lips pressed thin and the chin heavy. The hair was thick and curly like an African’s, and closely cropped. A stocky build made him look younger than his age, except for the few grey hairs near his temple. He was short-statured, almost of the same height as Kumudini. His hands were hairy and proportionately shorter than the body. Altogether the man seemed to be solid, from head to toe, as if some strong resolve was for ever frozen into his form. Rather like a cannon ball in its relentless trajectory, shot by Destiny. It was plain to see that he had no time for useless talk, trivial issues or small men.

  Nobody from Kumu’s side was happy at the way the wedding took place .The first meeting between the groom’s side and the bride’s produced a clangour of dissonance which drowned the festive tune of the wedding. From time to time, Kumu’s heart heaved. She tried her best to suppress a doubt. ‘Has my Lord let me down?’ she wondered. In the solitude of her closed room she often pressed her head on the floor and prayed—‘let my mind not weaken.’ The hardest task was to keep her doubts hidden from her brother.

  Since their mother’s death Bipradas had depended totally on Kumudini’s care. She looked after all the matters that concerned the family—clothing, the daily expenses, the book cases, grain to feed the horses, the cleaning of the guns, the tending of the dogs, maintaining the camera, the musical instruments and the bedrooms. The last few days before the wedding, she nursed her brother during his illness, taking utmost care not to let any of her own worries cloud her face. Bipradas was very proud of her skill with the esraj, but Kumu was too shy to play often. But these two days she played for him, the ragas Kanada and Malkauns on her own, for him. Into that rendering, she poured all her adoration, her prayers, her doubts and her dedication. Bipradas listened to her music with his eyes closed and asked from time to time for his favourite ragas—Sindhu, Behag, Bhairabi—ragas filled with tears and the sadness of separation. The sorrows that the two of them harboured in their hearts mingled with those tunes. Brother and sister did not exchange any words, nor did they condole or console each other.

  Bipradas’s fever, cough and chest pain showed no improvement; on the contrary, his condition worsened. Doctors cautioned that this influenza might even turn to pneumonia. Kumu was worried to death. It was agreed that the normal custom of spending the night after the wedding in her own home would be followed and that she would return to Kolkata the day after. But it was rumoured that Madhusudan had suddenly decided to take her back to Kolkata the day after the wedding itself. It was made clear that this was not to meet the demands of their family custom, nor for any ‘special need’, certainly not for love, but only just to discipline her. To ask for a favour, in such circumstances, was unthinkable for a sensitive woman like her.Yet she swallowed her pride and asked her husband, in a trembling voice, to let her stay on for a couple of days more so that she could see her brother on the way to recovery. Madhusudan’s curt reply was, ‘It’s all settled.’ There was no room for Kumu’s deep anguish in such unilateral rigidity. That night Madhusudan tried his best to make her talk, but she turned her face away and slept on the other side of the bed, without a word. She left her bed at the first sound of birds.

  It was still dark. Bipradas had spent a sleepless night. Despite his fever, he desperately wanted to attend the wedding reception, but the doctor prevented him, with great difficulty. So he sent a messenger every now and then to bring him the latest news; and like all news in the time of war, most of it was made up. Bipradas asked, ‘When did the groom arrive? I didn’t hear the band.’ Shibu the reporter said, ‘Our groom is very considerate. The moment he heard about the illness in the house he put a stop to everything. It was all so very quiet. You could hardly hear the footsteps of the marriage party.’

  ‘And one more thing, Shibu. Did the food go round? It was one of my big worries. After all, this is not Kolkata.’

  ‘Go round, did you say, sir? So much food was wasted!There is enough left over to feed another lot.’

  ‘Were they pleased?’

  ‘Not a word of complaint. Not a murmur! Many a wedding have I seen, where the groom’s party lead the bride’s party such a dance! But they were so quiet, you could hardly tell that they were there.’

  ‘After all they are from Kolkata; they know how to behave. They do realize that if the bride’s side is humiliated, it is a slur on them as well.’

  ‘Well put, sir. I must repeat it to them. They will be pleased to hear it.’

  By the evening Kumu was aware that Bipradas’s condition was worse. The thought that she would not be there to look after him, made her feel like a trapped bird. She knew that to her brother, her nursing meant much more than any medicine.

  She finished her prayers with a flower at the feet of her idol, and then went into her brother’s room. The sun was still to come up. Bipradas’s mind was relaxed, with the kind of weariness that overtakes one for a brief spell in the long fight against sickness. Like a harvested field, he was bereft of all the cares of the world and passions of life. The doors and windows of his room remained closed at night. Only now in the morning the doctor allowed the eastern window to be opened. Beyond the dew-drenched leaves of the peepul tree, the orange sky was slowly turning white. In the nearby river, the patchwork sails of the trader boats ballooned out against the red sky. The orchestra was playing the plaintive Ramkeli raga.

  Kumu took her brother’s fevered hands into her own cool palms. His terrier dog stretched sadly under the bed. As soon as she sat on the bed it put up two paws in her lap, wagging its tail. In its own way, it was trying to ask her something through its doleful eyes.

  Bipradas, following the trail of his own thoughts, suddenly said out of context, ‘My dearest sister, it is of no consequence as to who is bigger than whom or who is higher and who lower. These are all make-belief. Does it really matter which particular spot a bubble occupies in a mass of foam? Feel free within yourself. No one can ever hurt you then.’

  ‘Do bless me so, Dada, do bless me,’ said Kumu, covering her face with both her hands and trying to hold back her tears.

  Bipradas raised himself on his pillows, pulled her towards himself and gently kissed her head.

  The doctor walked in and said, ‘That’s all, Kumu Didi. He needs some rest now.’

  Kumu settled the pillows, pulled the sheet over her brother, tidied the bedside table and whispered in his ears, ‘Come to Kolkata and see me as soon as you get well.’

  Bipradas, resting his large gentle eyes on her face, said, ‘Kumu, the wind blows the cloud from the east to the west, and from the west to the east as well. We have such winds in our lives too. Accept it easily, my dear sister, as the cloud does its destiny. From now on, try to worry less and less about us. Preside like Lakshmi the goddess of prosperity, over the house you are about to enter. That is all that I wish for you, with all my heart. Nothing more.’

  She lay her head on his feet. ‘From today,’ she said, ‘you have nothing to ask of me and I shall have nothing to do with the daily life here. But it is not easy to accept such a big break.’ When a storm wrenches a boat from the shore it clings to its anchor; in the same way Kumu held to his feet as her last passionate link. The doctor came in again, and reminded her softly, ‘Didi , it is time,’ whilst wiping the tears off his own eyes. Kumu came out of the room but sat down on the threshold to weep silently into the loose end of her sari.

  She suddenly remembered that she had made
some roti with molasses the previous night to feed Bessie, her brother’s pet pony. This morning the groom had taken it to the garden at the back of the house. Kumu went there and found the pony grazing under a tree. No sooner had it heard her footsteps, than it pricked up its ears and started neighing. Kumu put her left hand on Bessie’s shoulder and started feeding it with her right hand. It glanced at her from time to time, raising its large, soft, dark eyes. When the pony finished the meal, Kumu quickly kissed the wide space between its eyes and ran home.

  18

  BIPRADAS HAD EXPECTED A VISIT FROM MADHUSUDAN SINCE HIS ARRIVAL IN Noornagar. But when that did not happen it was clear to him that this marriage would prove to be a sword of separation between the two families. The fatigue of illness made it easier for him to accept this possibility. He asked the doctor if he could play the esraj. The doctor said briefly, ‘Not today.’

  ‘Then please ask Kumu to come and play for me. God knows when I shall hear her play again.’

  ‘They have to take the nine o’clock train this morning,’ said the doctor, ‘otherwise they can’t reach Kolkata before sunset. I am afraid Kumu really has no time.’

  Bipradas replied with a deep sigh, ‘True, she has no time for this place any more. She has spent nineteen long years here, and now even an hour is too long for her.’

  The newly-wed couple came to say goodbye. Madhusudan said out of politeness, ‘Indeed I do not find you in good health.’

  Bipradas merely said, ‘God bless you.’

  ‘Do look after yourself, Dada,’ Kumu said, as she again touched his feet, sobbing.

  Amidst a blast of sounds—ullulation, conch shells and drums—the newly-married couple left.

  The spectacle of the two receding into the distance, tied to each other with symbolic knots in the customary wedding scarf, suddenly appeared obscene to Bipradas. History records that Taimur and Chenghis Khan erected victory towers with countless human skeletons. But the edifice of life and death created by those two knots in the holy scarf may reach heights beyond measure. But why such contrary thoughts today, he wondered.