Neerja gazed out of the window and mused to herself, ‘He would wake me too, at dawn, I would also go with him to the garden then. This wasn’t too long ago.’
When Neerja rambled on in this manner nobody was expected to join this discussion, but the ayah could not be quiet. ‘As if the garden would dry up if she weren’t taken along!’ she said.
Neerja continued to talk, as if to herself, ‘Not a day passed when I didn’t arrange for the early morning flowers to be sent to New Market. Those flowers were sent this morning too, I heard the sound of the vehicle. Who sees to this nowadays, Roshni?’
The ayah did not answer what was already known, she sat with her lips tightly pursed.
Neerja told her, ‘Whatever happens now, when I was in charge the gardeners could never hoodwink me.’
The ayah spoke in repressed grief, ‘Those days are gone now. Now both hands are used to steal openly.’
‘Really?’
‘Am I lying? How many flowers reach Kolkata’s New Market! As soon as Jamaibabu leaves, the gardeners sell the flowers at the back door.’
‘Nobody checks this?’
‘Who can be bothered?’
‘Why don’t you tell Jamaibabu?’
‘Who am I to say anything! I have to keep my dignity. Why don’t you tell him? Everything belongs to you.’
‘Let it be, let it be, fine. Let it go on like this for a while, when everything is ruined it will be exposed. One day the time of reckoning will come; the stepmother’s love is never greater than the mother’s, is it? So say nothing now.’
‘But I still say, Khokhi, there’s no work to be got from your Hola gardener.’
Hola’s indifference to work was not the only thing that perpetually annoyed the ayah.That Neerja’s affection for him, to her mind, was growing unreasonably, was the most significant reason for her irritation with Hola.
‘I don’t blame the gardener. Why should he tolerate the new mistress? He belongs to a family whose profession has been gardening for the last seven generations and your Didimoni’s skills are derived from books—to order him about, isn’t it unseemly? Hola doesn’t like to obey eccentric laws, he complains to me. And I tell him to shut his ears to it.’
‘The other day Jamaibabu was going to release him from work.’
‘Why, whatever for?’
‘He was sitting around smoking a beedi and right in front of him a cow strayed in from outside and was eating the plants. Jamaibabu said, “Why don’t you chase away the cow?” and he answered insolently, “Me chase the cow ! The cow will chase me. Don’t I have fear for my life!”’
Neerja laughed; she said, ‘He talks like that. Well, whatever it is, he is what I’ve created with my own hands.’
‘Jamaibabu tolerates him for your sake, whether a cow strays in or a rhino chases him. Being so pricey and haughty isn’t good, I tell you.’
‘Be quiet, Roshni. Don’t I know what grief kept him from chasing that cow? His chest burns in sorrow. There’s Hola—going somewhere with a towel on his head. Call him here.’
The ayah called Hola who came into the room. Neerja asked, ‘Well, are there new instructions these days?’
‘There are, definitely. Hearing them makes me laugh, brings tears to the eyes.’
‘Let me hear what.’
‘Over there from in front of the Mullicks’ old house that is being demolished—I have to get brickbats from there and spread it beneath the trees. This is her order. I said, “The trees will feel hot when the bricks heat up in the sun.” But she pays no attention to what I say.’
‘Why don’t you tell Babu?’
‘I told Babu. He scolded me and said, “Be quiet.” Boudidi, release me from work, I find this intolerable.’
‘That’s why I saw you carry in a basket of rubbish.’
‘Boudidi, you are my mistress forever. With you still here, they’ve made me hang my head in shame. I’ve lost my standing in front of everybody. Am I a common labourer that I should carry bricks?’
‘All right, go now.When your Didimoni asks you to carry in brickbats, tell her in my name I forbid this . . .Why do you still stand here?’
‘A letter’s come from my village. The big ox used for ploughing is dead.’ Saying this Hola scratched his head sheepishly.
Neerja said, ‘No, he isn’t dead, he’s hale and hearty. Here, take these two rupees and don’t blabber any more.’
She took out the money from the brass box on the table. But Hola continued to stand there.
‘Now what?’
‘An old garment for my wife. Something that you have no use for. You will be praised all over the place.’ Saying this Hola widened his betel-stained black lips and grinned.
Neerja said, ‘Roshni, go give him that sari that’s on the clothes-stand.’
Roshni shook her head vigorously and exclaimed, ‘What talk is this, that is your Dhakai sari!’
‘Let it be my Dhakai sari. Now all saris are the same to me. When will I ever wear them?’
Roshni set her face and said stubbornly, ‘No, that cannot be. I’ll give her the red bordered factory-made sari. Look here, Hola, if you pester Khokhi like this, I shall tell Babu to banish you far away.’
Hola clasped Neerja’s feet and wailed, ‘I have lost favour with fortune, Boudidi.’
‘Why, eh? What’s the matter with you?’
‘I call Ayahji mashi. I don’t have a mother, until now I used to think she loves this wretched Hola. But Boudidi, if you have something for me, then why does she create an obstacle? It’s nobody’s fault I suppose, it’s my fate that’s at fault.’
‘Don’t worry, your mashi loves you, she was praising you before you came. Roshni, give him that garment or he’ll lie here obstinately as if he were imploring in front of a deity at the temple.’
With an extremely sullen expression the ayah got the sari and threw it in front of Hola. Hola picked it up and bowing low touched Neerja’s feet and saluted her respectfully. Then he stood up and said, ‘Let me wrap it in this towel, Boudidi. My hands are dirty and it will get stained.’
Without waiting for permission Hola took a towel from the clothes-stand and vanished rapidly.
Neerja asked the ayah, ‘Roshni, do you know for sure if Babu has gone out?’
‘I saw him leaving with my own eyes. What hurry! Forgot to take his cap.’
‘Today it happened for the first time. The flower he presents to me every morning was forgotten. This forgetfulness will increase daily. Finally I will be kept aside in the dump in this household, where the burnt out coal is stored.’
Seeing Sarala approach the ayah grimaced and left. Sarala entered the room. In her hand was an orchid. It was a spotless flower, the tip of the petal was of a faint purple colour. It looked like a huge butterfly whose wings were spread fully. Sarala was tall and slender, dark complexioned; her large eyes, bright and sad, were what struck everyone at the first glance. She was wearing a coarse hand-spun sari, with her hair carelessly tied up, hanging untidy and loose over her shoulders. Her unadorned form did injustice to her youth.
Neerja refused to look at her. Sarala gently kept the flower on the bed, in front of her. Neerja did not hide her annoyance and asked brusquely, ‘Who told you to bring this?’
‘Aditda.’
‘Why didn’t he come himself?’
‘He had to leave in a hurry for the New Market shop, as soon as he finished his cup of tea.’
‘Why this rush?’
‘Last night there was news—the office lock has been tampered with and money stolen.’
‘Couldn’t he spare five minutes for me?’
‘Last night your pain increased. You fell asleep early in the morning. He came to the door and then turned back. He told me before leaving that if he didn’t return by the afternoon I was to give you this flower.’
Before beginning his work for the day Aditya would specially select a flower to place on his wife’s bed. Neerja waited for this every day. And today he had lef
t that special flower with Sarala. It had not entered his mind that the essential value of giving a flower was to give it personally. Even the holy water of the Ganges loses its significance if it flows out of an ordinary pipe.
Neerja pushed the flower aside scornfully and said, ‘Do you know how costly this flower is in the market? Send it there. What is the point of wasting it?’
Saying this, her voice grew heavy.
Sarala understood the situation. She knew that answering Neerja would merely aggravate her grief. So she stood silent. A little while later Neerja asked, ‘Do you know the name of this flower?’
Sarala could have said ‘I don’t know’ but perhaps that hurt her pride; she said, ‘Amaryllis.’
Neerja snapped at her quite unreasonably, ‘So much for your knowledge! The name is Grandiflora.’
Sarala replied mildly, ‘Maybe so.’
‘What do you mean, maybe so? Of course it is so. Are you trying to say I don’t know?’
Sarala realized that Neerja had purposely given the wrong name, to alleviate her own agony by inflicting it on another. In defeat she was about to leave the room slowly; but Neerja called out, ‘Listen! What were you doing all morning, where were you?’
‘In the orchid room.’
Neerja became agitated, ‘Why must you go so often to the orchid room?’
‘Aditda had asked me to splice some orchids and graft them anew.’
Neerja said in disapproving tones, ‘Like an ignorant person you will ruin them all. I have taught Hola the gardener to make them, couldn’t he have done it if instructed?’
There could be no answer to this. The candid answer would be that in Neerja’s time Hola the gardener might have worked well, but Sarala could not manage him at all. In fact, he often insulted her by showing indifference.
The gardener had realized that not working well in the present regime would please the mistress of the previous regime. It was a bit like boycotting classes and not passing the examination being of more value than getting the college degree.
Sarala could have got angry with all the pettiness Neerja was displaying, but she did not. She recognized that her Boudidi’s heart ached. The garden occupied all of this childless woman’s heart and today after ten years it was so near her, all around her, and yet she was banished from it! What a cruel separation!
Neerja said, ‘Shut it, shut the window.’
Sarala closed the window and asked, ‘Now shall I fetch some orange juice?’
‘No , you don’t have to get anything.’
Sarala reminded her rather timidly, ‘It’s time for you to have your makardhvaj.’
‘No , no need for makardhvaj. Are there any more instructions for you concerning the garden?’
‘I have to plant rose cuttings.’
Neerja said with some spite, ‘Oh, and is this the time! Who gave you this idea, let me hear?’
Sarala said softly, ‘From the outstation suddenly there are several orders so Aditda resolved somehow to prepare many plants before the monsoons. I had said not to.’
‘Said not to, I see! All right, all right, call Hola here.’
Hola came in. Neerja said, ‘Have you become a fine gentleman? Do your hands get cramps planting rose cuttings? Is Didimoni your assistant gardener? Before Babu gets back from the city you will plants as many cuttings as possible, no breaks today, I tell you. Mix the sand with the scorched leaves and grass and prepare the ground on the right bank of the pool.’
Neerja decided to lie on the bed and organize the planting of roses from there itself. There was to be no deliverance for Hola the gardener.
Hola smiled indulgently and told Neerja, ‘Boudidi, this is a brass water-pot made in Cuttack by Horosundar Maity. Only you can appreciate its finesse. It will look good as a vase for you.’
Neerja asked, ‘How much does it cost?’
Pressing the tip of his tongue between his teeth to show abashment, Hola said, ‘Don’t say such things. As if I can take money for this pot! I am poor but not ungrateful.You have reared me with food and clothes.’
He put the water pot on the table and taking flowers from another vase began to arrange them there. Finally, turning to go, he remarked, ‘I have told you of my niece’s wedding. Don’t forget the armlet, Boudidi. If I give her brass jewellery you will be criticized. I am a gardener in such a prosperous household, a wedding in my family will naturally arouse the curiosity of the whole locality.’
Neerja replied, ‘All right, don’t worry, now go.’
Hola left. Neerja suddenly turned on her side and placing her head on the pillow, cried out in suppressed grief, ‘Roshni, Roshni, how petty I have become, my mind has become like that of Hola gardener’s.’
The ayah said, ‘Shame, shame, Khokhi, what are you saying?’
Neerja continued to speak absently, ‘My misfortune struck me down on the outside, but why is it making me so mean on the inside? Don’t I know how Hola regards me now! Standing so close, grinning and taking his tip he left. Call him here. I will rebuke him sternly, get rid of his wickedness once and for all.’
But when the ayah rose to call Hola, Neerja said, ‘Let it be, let it be for now.’
3
SOME TIME LATER NEERJA’S COUSIN-IN-LAW, ROMEN, ARRIVED. ‘BOUDI, DADA sent me here,’ he said. ‘He has plenty of work at the office, he will eat out, since he will be back rather late.’
Neerja chuckled and said, ‘Fine excuse to come running here with this message, Thakurpo ! Why did you have to trouble yourself, is the office bearer dead?’
‘To be near you do I need any other excuse but yourself, Boudi? Can the bearer express the affection that I feel for my Boudi?’
‘My dear, you scatter pearls in the wrong place. What error brings you to this room? Your female florist roams alone in the lemon grove, go and see her there.’
‘Let me pay homage to the goddess of the garden first and then I shall go in search of the female gardener.’ Saying this he brought out a book from his shirt pocket and handed it to Neerja.
Neerja was delighted and said, ‘Asru Shikol (A Chain of Tears)—this is the book I wanted. I bless you, may the florist of your garden be eternally chained to your heart in joy. She whom you Call your imagination’s partner, the companion of your dreams. What amour my dear!’
Romen said suddenly, ‘All right Boudi, I want to ask you something, but answer truthfully.’
‘What?’
‘Have you quarrelled with Sarala today?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I saw her sitting silently beside the pool.Women are not like men who while away the time daydreaming when they ought to be working. I have never before seen Sarala in such an idle state. When I asked her, “In which direction is your mind wandering?” she retorted, “In that direction where the heated wind blows withered leaves.” I said, “That is a riddle. Speak in plain language.” She answered, “Does everything have a language?” Again I saw a riddle. A line from that song came to mind then: “Whose words have hurt you today?”’
‘Maybe something your Dada said.’
‘That cannot be. Dada is a man. He may sternly reprimand your gardeners. But can the fire devastate the beautiful flower?’
‘All right, let’s not talk any more nonsense. Instead, I want to ask you something important. I entreat you, please marry Sarala. To marry and save a spinster would be great piety.’
‘I don’t care about piety but I covet that maiden, this I swear to you.’
‘Then where is the obstacle? Isn’t she agreeable?’
‘I haven’t even asked her. She is more my fancy’s match, not my worldly partner.’
Suddenly, with tremendous eagerness, Neerja clutched Romen’s hand. ‘Why not, it has to be. Before I die you have to be married or I shall haunt you both, I tell you.’
Neerja’s agitation caused Romen to stare at her in amazement. Finally he shook his head and said, ‘Boudi, I am younger than you in our relationship by marriage, but older than
you in years. The flying wind blows the seeds of weeds; if encouraged by suitable conditions the weeds grow roots, and then who can uproot them?’
‘You don’t have to advise me. I am your elder, and I’m giving you good counsel, marry her. Don’t delay. There are good dates in this month of Phalgun.’
‘In my almanac all three hundred and sixty-five days are good. There may be good days Boudi, but there is no path leading to such an event taking place. I have been to prison once, even now I’m on the slippery road that heads gaolwards. The minions of Prajapati, the god of marriage, don’t tread those paths.’
‘Do girls nowadays fear the jail?’
‘Maybe they don’t but that is not the way to go around the sacred fire seven times. On that road one is stronger keeping his bride in his heart, not by his side. She will always be in my heart.’
Sarala entered the room and placed a tumbler of Horlicks upon the table. She was about to leave when Neerja called her, ‘Don’t go, listen Sarala, whose photograph is this? Do you recognize her?’
Sarala replied, ‘It is mine.’
‘Your picture in the early days. When at your Uncle’s place Aditya and you used to work in the garden, isn’t it? Looking at this photo, it seems you were fifteen. Wore your sari like a loin cloth tucked in between the legs, like the Maharashtrian women.’
‘Where did you get this?’
‘I saw it in his desk, didn’t notice it then. Had it brought from there now. Thakurpo, Sarala looks better now than she did at that time. What do you think?’
Romen replied, ‘Was there a Sarala then? At least I did not know her then. For me this is the only true Sarala. Whom should I compare her to?’
Neerja said, ‘Now her appearance has a mystery arising from her heart—like the cloud once plainly white is now brimming dark with monsoon showers. This is what you call romantic, eh, Thakurpo?’
Sarala turned to leave; but Neerja stalled her, ‘Sarala, sit here a while. Thakurpo, for once let me look at Sarala from a man’s perspective. Tell me, what does one notice about her right in the beginning?’
Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1 Page 77