Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1

by Rabindranath Tagore

  On the way back Madhusudan just sat silent in the carriage. Nabin broke the silence with, ‘I don’t believe a word of what Venkat Shastri said. He must have heard all about you from someone else.’

  ‘So you consider yourself very clever! Is it so easy to collect information about everyone everywhere?’

  ‘At least it is easier than casting horoscopes of billions of people much before they are born. Where could Bhrigumuni get so much paper and where would Venkat Shastri find the room to keep them?’

  ‘The sages knew how to say a thousand words with one stroke of their pen.’

  ‘Absurd.’

  ‘Whatever is beyond your comprehension becomes absurd? Let your Science be. Stop this debate and go and get hold of the man who came from Bipradas Babu. Don’t delay, go today.’

  Nabin felt uneasy having deceived his brother. It was such a simple ruse, its success so ridiculous with one like his brother, that Nabin himself felt ashamed and sad at his humiliation. On many occasions he had tricked his brother when in a fix, but he had never felt bad about them. But this time he felt somewhat unclean at so elaborately setting up such a big hoax.

  42

  MADHUSUDAN FELT AS IF A HEAVY WEIGHT HAD JUST FALLEN OFF HIS CHEST—the weight of self-pride, the stony self-esteem which had always suppressed his growing attachment to his wife. A struggle had been going on in his mind against his infatuation with Kumu. The more he found no way but to surrender to her, the more he was angry with her. Now that the stars had clarified that Lakshmi had come to his home in the form of his bride, and that she had to be appeased, all strife was at an end. The thought thrilled him no end. He went on reciting to himself, ‘My Lakshmi, my priceless gift of good fortune!’ He felt like running to her right away and begging her forgiveness. But there was no time today. He had to rush to work now to mend the breaches in his business affairs. He could not afford to go home even for lunch.

  Meanwhile, Kumu’s mind was in a turmoil. She was told that her brother was to come the next day and that he was unwell. She was anxious to know for sure, if she would be able to see him. Nabin had gone out on some errand and not come back yet. For some unknown reason, Nabin was certain that Madhusudan would himself come and try to please her in every way, and though she felt that Nabin was expecting too much of his brother, she did not want to deprive him of that pleasure.

  It was not possible to sit on the terrace today. It had got cloudy since last night and today since noon, it had started drizzling. Winter rain was like an unwelcome guest. The clouds lost colour, the rain its sound, the wet air was depressing and the earth seemed to shrink away from the poor sunless sky. So Kumu sat on the little shaded place at the top of the stairs leading from her bedroom. Occasionally a spray of rain would come inside. On this dim, monotonous, wet day she felt that her whole life was being swallowed by a python and within the confines of its gullet there was no opening whatsoever. The resentment against her personal god, who had lured her into this helpless morass of hopelessness, flared into a flaming rage today. She sprang into action, took out from her desk the framed picture of Radha and Krishna, wrapped in a piece of printed silk cloth. She wanted to destroy it as a loud protest declaring her loss of faith in Him. Her trembling hands could not open the knots of the wrapper. The more she struggled with these, the tighter they became. In her impatience she tore the string open with her teeth. At the familiar sight of the divine couple she could no longer hold herself back; she pressed them to her bosom. The more the wooden frame hurt her the harder she pressed it close to herself.

  Murali, the bearer, entered to make the bed. He was shivering in the cold, wrapped in a dirty old shawl, bald, veins sticking out, sunken cheeks with a salt-and-pepper stubble of many days. He had just recovered from a bout of malaria and was anaemic. The doctor had asked him to give up his job, go back and rest in his village home, but fate was cruel.

  ‘Are you feeling cold, Murali?’ asked Kumu.

  ‘Yes ma’am, the rains have made it chilly.’

  ‘Have you no warm clothes?’

  ‘On the day of his investiture the Maharaj gave me a shawl, but on the doctor’s advice I gave it to my grandson when he was suffering from cough and cold.’

  Kumu took out from the cupboard next to her, a grey shawl, and said, ‘Take this shawl of mine.’

  Murali bowed low and said, ‘Please excuse me. The Maharaj will be very angry.’

  Kumu recalled that the path of kindness was very narrow in this house. But she also had to win her lord’s reprieve by earning merit with such good deeds. She threw the shawl down on the floor in indignation.

  Murali said with folded hands, ‘Please Ranima, our own Lakshmi, do not be angry with me. I do not need warm clothes. I stay in the tobacco room with those who tend to the hookahs. They always have those burning pieces of coal in bowls and that keeps me quite warm.’

  Kumu said, ‘Go and see if brother Nabin is back, and ask him to see me.’

  As soon as Nabin came she said, ‘You have to do me a favour. Please say yes.’

  Nabin said, ‘Sure I will, even if it harms me, but never, if it hurts you.’

  ‘What more harm can come to me? I have ceased to care.’ She took out her thick golden bangles, gave it to him and said, ‘You sell this and arrange a religious service for my brother’s recovery from illness.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Bourani.Your devotion to him is a perpetual service in his favour.’

  ‘Brother, there is nothing else that I can do for my Dada except to offer the gods my service on his behalf.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything. Aren’t we there to serve also?’

  ‘What can you do? Tell me.’

  ‘We are sinners; we can sin for him.’

  ‘Do not joke about such matters, please.’

  ‘Not at all. You will agree that it is much more difficult to sin than to do a good deed and when the gods realize it they duly reward the one who does it.’

  Normally, she would have been hurt at the disrespect for divinity implied in Nabin’s words, but she had to be indulgent towards such lack of reverence as she remembered her brother’s equal disbelief in gods. Her tolerance of this offence was rather like the mother’s amused and affectionate indulgence to a child’s mischief-making.

  She said, with a faint smile, ‘You men can do as you like on your own right, but we have no way to act on our own. How can we do something for those whom we love but cannot approach? My days seem endless. I see no way out. Is there no one to take pity on me?’

  Nabin’s eyes were beginning to fill with tears.

  She continued, ‘I have got to make a token offering on behalf of my brother. This bangle is my mother’s. I shall offer it to the gods as from my mother.’

  ‘One does not have to offer anything to a god in person, He takes it on his own. Wait for a couple of days and see if He is pleased with you. If not, I shall certainly do whatever you order me to do. Even take an offering to the god who does not show you any mercy.’

  It was getting dark, and familiar steps could be heard on the stairs. Nabin got a start, his brother was coming. He did not run away, but stayed on courageously to face his brother. Kumu’s mind, on the other hand, shrank immediately. She was frightened at the severity of the shock to all her nerves from this unseen conflict.Why had this evil got her in its grips?

  All of a sudden she asked Nabin, ‘Do you know of anyone who can counsel me as a guru?’

  ‘Why, Bourani?’

  ‘I can’t cope with my own mind any more.’

  ‘That’s not a fault of your mind.’

  ‘I have often heard my brother say that the danger is always from outside but the evil is within your mind.’

  ‘Do not worry, your brother will guide you.’

  ‘Will that day ever come?’

  As soon as an understanding was reached in Madhusudan’s mind between his worldly wisdom and his feelings of love, the latter began to suffuse all his activity. Kumu’s
beautiful face was his own fortune.

  That it was already turning in his favour was proved today when many of the colleagues who opposed him yesterday wrote to him today changing their tone. The moment Madhusudan had proposed buying the property himself, they thought they were missing a bargain. Some of them even suggested reconsidering the entire proposal.

  Also, the peon in the office who had been docked half his month’s wages for absence without notice, came and fell at his feet today. Madhusudan at once pardoned him; which meant, of course, that he would compensate the peon from his own pocket. The punishment would however, remain on the books. With him, rules were rules.

  It was a day of wonders for Madhusudan. The sky outside was overcast and it was also drizzling a little but this only helped enhance the joy he felt inside. Usually after he returned from work he spent his time in the office room till dinner was announced. Since the day he got married he did break this rule and come inside the house at odd times, but he did that surreptitiously. Today his loud footsteps boldly announced to the whole world that he was indeed going to meet his wife. He had realized today that his extraordinary good fortune could be the envy of the world.

  The rain stopped for a while. Some rooms in the house were lit up, others were still in the dark. An ancient woman, with an incense burner, was going round each room, a bat was circling round and round from the sky above the courtyard into the lamp-lit corridors. The maids sitting on the veranda were rolling wicks on their bare thighs. They scampered at the approach of Madhusudan. At the sound of his footsteps Shyamasundari came out with a box of paan. She always used to send this paan to him when he came back from work. Everyone knew that only Shyama could make the paan to his taste. There was the hint of something more to this common knowledge. It is this extra bit which made her bold enough to hold the box open in front of him and say, ‘Brother, your paan is here all ready, do take them with you.’ If this were in the past, there would be a few exchanges of pleasantries, with a touch of flirtation. But today, something in his mind made him shun her touch and quickly disappear without the paan. Her large eyes flashed in a sulk but drops of tears soon flooded them. In her heart of hearts, she was in love with him.

  As soon as Madhusudan entered the bedroom Nabin got up to go. He touched the feet of Kumu and said, ‘I shall remember to look for the guru,’ then he turned to his brother and added, ‘Bourani wants to listen to the scriptures from a proper guru. We have our family priest but he . . .’

  Madhusudan said excitedly, ‘Scriptures! All right, I shall take care of it. You don’t have to do anything.’

  Nabin left.

  All the way home Madhusudan had recited to himself how he was going to address Kumu, ‘Borrobou, you have come and my whole house is lit up.’ He was never used to such sentimental utterances. That is why he had decided to speak them out as soon as he entered the room, without dithering. But the sight of Nabin halted him. And then came the topic of scriptures, which totally silenced him. This little impediment baffled the elaborate preparation that was going on in his mind. Then he saw the fear in her eyes and a shrinking of her mind and body. On other days he would not have noticed these. But today the new light within himself made his vision acute. He was now more sensitive towards Kumu’s feelings. Today her apathy seemed to him cruelly unfair. Still he was determined not to be upset. But what promised to be easy and natural was no longer possible.

  After a spell of silence Madhusudan said, ‘Borrobou, you want to get away? Can’t you wait for a minute?’

  She was surprised at his tone and voice. She said, ‘No, why should I want to go?’

  ‘I have brought something for you, please open it and look.’ He put a small golden casket in her hand.

  She opened it and saw her brother’s gift—the sapphire ring inside. Her heart was in a tumult, she did not know what to do.

  ‘Will you let me put this on your finger?’

  She stretched out her hand. He took her hand in his lap and started to put it on very gently, deliberately taking a little longer time than necessary. The he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it and said, ‘It was my mistake to take it off your hand. No precious stone can be harmful in your hands.’

  Kumu would have been less astonished had he hit her instead. Madhusudan liked the childlike wonder in her face. He had something more for her in reserve, and now he revealed it. ‘Kalu Mukhujjey from your home is here. Do you want to meet him?’

  Her face brightened. She exclaimed, ‘Kaluda!’

  ‘Let me send for him. While you two talk, I shall finish my dinner.’

  Kumudini’s eyes brimmed over with tears of gratitude.

  43

  KALU’S RELATIONSHIP WITH THE HOUSE OF THE CHATTERJEES HAD LASTED for generations. He was their most trusted man. One of his ancestors even went to jail for the Chatterjees. Kalu had come to Madhusudan’s office to pay an instalment of the loan interest and take a receipt. He was short, fair, well-rounded, with bulging light eyes overhung with thick bushy eyebrows that were partly grey. His thick moustache was white but the thatch of hair on his head was still mostly black. He was wearing a carefully pleated Santipur dhoti and an old expensive jamawar appropriate to the prestige of his employer. The stone on his ring was not of inconsiderable value. Kumu bowed as soon as Kalu came. They sat on the carpet. Kalu said, ‘Little one, it was only the other day you left us, but it seems years ago.’

  ‘First, you tell me how Dada is . . .’

  ‘Yes, we had some anxious times with him. The day after you left it was critical. But he has an unusually strong constitution and he weathered it. The doctors were surprised.’

  ‘Is he coming tomorrow?’

  ‘That was the plan but it may be delayed by a couple of days. The full moon is due and everyone warned him of the danger of a relapse. How are you keeping?’

  ‘I am fine.’

  Kalu did not wish to comment, but he wondered nevertheless. Whatever had happened to her graceful beauty? Why were there dark rings under her eyes? Why had her fair skin lost its glow?

  Kumu also wanted to ask a question which was bothering her. ‘Hasn’t he sent anything for me?’ As if in answer to her unspoken question Kalu said, ‘He has sent something for you with me.’

  Kumu was eager to know. ‘What is it? Where is it?’

  ‘I have left it outside.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring it in?’

  ‘Don’t be impatient Didi, Maharaj said he will bring it himself.’

  ‘What is it, do tell me.’

  ‘But he swore me to secrecy.’ Kalu looked around, changed the topic and said, ‘They have kept you in great comfort.When I go back and report to Boro Babu how happy he will be. The first two days he fretted for your news. Must have been something wrong with the post, then he got three of your letters all together.’

  Kumu could easily guess where the post had gone wrong.

  She wanted to ask him to stay to dinner, but did not have the courage to do so. She asked a little hesitatingly, ‘Kaluda, you haven’t had your dinner yet?’

  ‘I’ve noticed that in Calcutta late meals do not agree with me. So I’ve started on Ramdas Kabiraj’s makaradhwaja. But it does not seem to have made much difference,’ Kalu anwered.

  He had guessed that as a new bride Kumu was not yet fully in command of the household and so she must not be able to ask him for dinner directly and would only be sorry for herself.

  Just then, Motir-ma signalled to her from behind the door and when Kumu went to her Motir-ma said, ‘Please bring Mr Mukherjee, from your home, to the room downstairs and sit with him. His dinner is ready.’

  Kumu came back and told him, ‘Let your Kabiraj be.You have to come for your dinner right now.’

  ‘What a fuss. It’s torture ! Not now, maybe some other time.’

  ‘None of that! Just come with me.’

  It was obvious that the Kabiraj’s medicine had been very effective, for there was no lack of appetite on Kalu’s part.


  As soon as her Kaludada’s dinner was over Kumu returned to her bedroom. His visit had left her mind full of memories of her childhood home. The mango tree in the backyard of her Noornagar home must have blossomed by now. How many quiet afternoons had she spent lying down with her head resting on her arm, in the courtyard near the pond, under the flowering jamrul tree. Those afternoons filled with the murmur of bees, brilliant with light and shade. She used to feel an unknown aching in her heart, which she failed to understand then. That ache coloured her dreams like the dust-laden evening glow in Brajabhumi—the land of Radha and Krishna. She was unaware then, that the yet unmet love of her youth had already spread His enchantment everywhere in the air. It was He who had been playing hide and seek with her when she worshipped the Radha-Krishna duo, it was He whom she had invited in the unseen recesses of her heart as she played Raag Multani on her esraj.

  That old home of hers was full of intimations of the dream person of her first youth, that attic from where she could see the winding village road flanked by flaming fields of mustard, the small knoll near the wall of the backyard from the top of which you could make out pictures in green and black from some forgotten times sketched on the mossy wall. On waking up every morning, she could see from her bedroom window on the first floor the white sails against the red sky, receding into the distant horizon, just like her aimless desires. That mirage of her first youth had accompanied her to Kolkata, to find itself in her prayers, in her gardening. That is what had lured her blindly into the noose of marriage, with the pretence of an oracle. But it disappeared in the strong light of the day.

  Meanwhile Madhusudan had crept up behind her and stared into her image on the mirror on the wall. He knew that the unknown and unseen realm where Kumu’s mind was lost, was certainly out of his reach. Her unmindfulness would have infuriated him on any other day. But today he sat by her side with a quiet sadness, and said, ‘What are you thinking of, Borrobou?’