Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  One morning, his uncle Ramanath Thakur came to see him. ‘Debendra,’ he said, ‘my heart goes out to you and your brothers. A grievous affliction has fallen on you. There’s only one way out as far as I can see. Transfer your properties to an anonymous holder and declare insolvency. No one can touch you then.’

  Debendra shook his head. ‘No, Kakamoshai,’ he said firmly, ‘I cannot do that. How can I enjoy privileges obtained through deceit and prevarication? God will never forgive me for taking away that which rightfully belongs to another.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Ramanath said forcefully, ‘there is such a thing as worldly wisdom. You are young and brash. Be guided by me and do as I say. Once you have consolidated your position you may consider paying up your debts.’

  ‘Forgive me for disobeying you,’ Debendranath said, ‘but I’ve taken a decision. My brothers support it. I have made a list of all our assets, moveable and immoveable.’ He drew out a sheaf of papers from his desk and passed it to his uncle. ‘I shall hand this to the creditors and ask them to hold an auction.’

  Ramanath looked through the papers and was appalled. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Had the boy gone mad? He had declared everything. From every bit of commercial property the family owned to all their personal belongings. Furniture, carpets, artefacts, paintings – he had listed them all. Even the Madonna, by Raphael, which had been presented to his father by the Holy Pope himself! The only items he had left out were their clothes and the women’s jewellery.

  ‘What are you trying to do? Commit suicide?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Have you forgotten that you have a family to support?’

  ‘God will provide. He who has created us will sustain us.’

  ‘Nonsense! If you cut off your foot and expect God to come and join it, you’ll be waiting all your life. Stop being so impetuous, Deba. If you insist on paying your creditors, do so. But not like this. Not at the cost of ruining your family. After all it isn’t you who’s responsible for the debt. People will understand.’

  ‘My father’s debt is mine, Kakamoshai. How can I ignore it? I shall know no peace till I’ve paid up. To the last cowrie.’

  Ramanath felt the blood rushing to his head. This callow youth, this stripling, was defying his authority! Was he not the legitimate guardian of his deceased brother’s children? Should they not show him the respect due to him and heed his advice? However, he controlled himself and made one last effort. ‘Cut all this out…’ He ran his finger through the list of personal effects. ‘And try to save some of the business. Hold on to the coalfield in Raniganj at the very least. It is worth its weight in gold.’

  ‘I have made up my mind.’ Debendranath’s voice was steady, unyielding. ‘I shall give up everything. And, if the amount collected is still insufficient, I shall surrender the Trust property as well.’

  Ramanath couldn’t bear this insolence any longer. He rose, trembling, to his feet and tapped his stick angrily on the floor. ‘Headstrong, arrogant boy!’ he cried out, his voice cracking with outrage. ‘Who can help you if you insist on ruining yourself? But remember this. When you and your family are starving in the streets don’t come crying to me. I have nothing to do with you from this day forth.’ Calling for his carriage he stomped out of the house.

  A few days later, D.M. Gordon, the British partner of Carr, Tagore and Company, called a meeting of the creditors. In his opening speech he informed them that the heirs of Prince Dwarkanath Tagore were ready and willing to surrender all their assets barring the Trust property over which they had no control. But, even if everything they possessed was liquidated, the amount realized would fall short by thirty lakhs. Since it was the best they could do, the creditors should show some magnanimity, take what they get and let go of the rest.

  A buzz of voices broke out at these words. Debendranath’s face clouded. Calling Girindranath to his side, he whispered, ‘Gordon Saheb is intimidating the creditors. It is our duty to step forward and reassure them.’ Rising to his feet, he drew from the pocket of his jobba the sheaf of papers he had prepared, and held it out. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘here is a list of all our assets. It is my humble request that they be auctioned and the proceeds divided in proportion to the amounts owing to each of you. Another thing. My brothers and I have decided to surrender the Trust property as well and clear our dues. But that, as you will understand, involves a legal process and will take some time. Please bear with us till then.’

  A profound silence fell on the company at these words. The three brothers scanned the faces in front of them. Some looked guilty and ashamed; others awed and humbled. Gordon shot a perplexed glance at Debendranath. But the latter would not meet his eyes. Rising to his feet he walked out of the room.

  When the news reached the women’s wing, a pall of gloom descended on its inmates. Sarada, Jogmaya and Tripura clung to each other and wept. And, as at all such times, it was Jogmaya who collected herself first and comforted her sisters-in-law. ‘Our husbands have done the right thing,’ she said, ‘by honouring their father’s debts. Why do we worry? Don’t we have our Lakshmi and Narayan in the puja room guarding and protecting us? Will they not rain blessings on us for surrendering that which is not rightfully ours? Don’t cry, Didi. Put your faith in our family gods. They will not abandon us.’

  Sarada sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘At least we have our husbands and children alive and well,’ she sighed. ‘If only our father-in-law…’

  ‘What’s done is done,’ Jogmaya said decidedly. ‘Let’s not blame the dead man and earn his curses. This is the time to stand by our husbands and give them our support. What they’ve done is not easy. You yourself say all the time that we must be like the satis of the epics and follow our husbands like shadows. We are being put to the test now. We must not fail.’

  Brave words! But the day the auctioneers made their entry and the sale began, a roll of lamentation rose from the abarodh. Even Jogmaya broke down and wept bitterly. All the beautiful things of the house, things she had seen from childhood and considered part of her life, were being dragged out into the courtyard where a crowd of strange men were waiting to pounce on them. The delicately carved furniture her father-in-law had ordered from France; the English landscapes and Italian frescoes which she had thought as permanent as the walls on which they were hung, were carried away. The floors were stripped of their fine carpets and the vast storerooms emptied of their stocks of silver and china. Even the ivory and crystal lamp holders were wrenched cruelly from the walls, leaving marks, naked and ugly as wounds. It took days but when all was done the great mansion of Jorasanko was reduced to a shell. Mountains of objects of beauty and value, culled from all over the world, spilled out of the gate and reached the end of the street.

  The auction went on for a fortnight. Lifting the shutters the women peered through the chinks into the courtyard where, one by one, their possessions were changing hands. Dhum! The auctioneer’s hammer fell on his anvil and the grand piano with gilt claws and ivory keys, on which their father-in-law had played and sung his favourite Scottish airs, was gone! For two hundred and thirty rupees. Twenty-six clocks, collected from all over Europe, went in one lot for six hundred rupees. Dinner services of Dresden, Spode and Sevres porcelain and cutlery sets of sterling silver vanished in minutes. Each stroke of the auctioneer’s hammer fell on their chests like a physical blow. They gazed on the scene and in each one’s heart was the thought: What does the future hold for us?

  The future was unknown. But the present became dark and desolate. The family, from being one of the wealthiest in the land, was reduced to joining ranks with the middle class. The distant relatives and hangers-on who thronged the Tagore household were not asked to leave but most of the servants and maids were dismissed. Only a skeleton staff was retained. The stables were emptied of their horses and carriages, and the men started walking to wherever they had to go. Sarada, Jogmaya and Tripura, used to being served their meals in the privacy of their apartments, were now eating together after thei
r husbands and children had been fed. Picking at the frugal fare, served in brass vessels, each one thought, though they did not express it, of the lavish meals they had taken for granted all these years. Rice, fine and fragrant as juin petals, on vast silver thalas ringed with dozens of silver bowls brimming over with varieties of fish and vegetables, curds, desserts, pickles and preserves. How careless they had been of food then! Jogmaya, a fussy eater, had always begun by dipping her index finger in each bowl and touching it to her tongue. Whatever she didn’t like she pushed away. Now there was no choice. Debendranath, bent on setting an example, ate only dal and ruti at night. ‘My father spent three hundred rupees on each one of his dinners,’ he told his wife proudly. ‘I shall prove that it is possible to survive on four annas.’

  ‘Only ruti and dal!’ Sarada exclaimed horrified. ‘It has no nourishment. You’ll become weak and fall ill.’

  ‘The peasants of north India eat only ruti and dal. They are larger and stronger than us,’ was his answer.

  Life changed in other ways. Sarada and her sisters-in-law had been used to three or four maids oiling and massaging their bodies with perfumed oils and rooptaan as a prelude to their morning baths. In the evening, women, skilled in the task, combed and dressed their hair in elaborate coiffures before winding around them the cool, moist garlands of jasmine and tuberoses the malinis brought up at dusk. Alta dasis applied alta on their feet. Now they had to do it all themselves. Three times a year, once before the Baisakhi mela, a month prior to Durga Puja and at the onset of the harvest festival, the family weavers would come to Jorasanko with stacks of saris from Dhaka, Tangail, Farashdanga, Shantipur, Cuttack and Baluchar. The advent of the weaver’s wife, Bishu’r Ma, in the women’s wing was always a cause for great excitement among the women and little girls. They would crowd around her and each would pick up as many saris as she wanted, urged and incited by Bishu’r Ma’s sales talk and flattery. ‘This is just the sari for you, Mejo Bou rani,’ she would advise Jogmaya. ‘The sunset pink will enhance the colour of your skin.’ Or she might turn to Sarada with a burst of familiarity, ‘If you deprive me of the sight of this moss-green silk against your snow-white limbs, Bado Bou rani, I swear I’ll give up bringing saris to your door. And of course you must take this red-flowered Murshidabadi silk for our great big didimoni here.’ And she would smile at Jogmaya’s tiny daughter Kadu and chuck her under the chin.

  The shawl merchants from Kashmir and Kabulis from Afghanistan, from whom the Tagores bought their annual stocks of shawls and dried fruits, would make an appearance every winter and display their wares in the baar mahal. While the men of the house picked out shawls for themselves and their wives, the steward, too, had his moment of glory. For it was he who dealt with the Kabulis. Driving a hard bargain which lasted hours and hours and which he enjoyed thoroughly, he would stock the storerooms with enough almonds, pistachios, raisins, dried figs, apricots, nutmeg and mace, saffron and asafoetida to last them the whole year.

  All these became mere memories. But the women suffered the most. They had not only to make do with what they had, Debendra sent word, through his wife, that they must help out with the housework from now on. In the absence of a steward it became their duty to ration out the rice, dal, oil and spices for the day, give instructions to the cooks and supervise them. They had also to cut the fruits and vegetables and do some of the cooking themselves since the number of cooks had dwindled from ten to two. Jogmaya and Tripura took on most of these duties, leaving Sarada, who was constantly in and out of the birthing chamber, relatively free. But clever Sarada always made it a point to be seen in the kitchens and storerooms whenever her husband was around. Tripura and Jogmaya smiled snidely and exchanged glances but, in front of Sarada, they pretended that they hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

  But perhaps Jogmaya was right. The family deities Lakshmi and Narayan were really watching over their wards and were distressed by their sorrows. Goddess Lakshmi decided to justify Jogmaya’s confidence in her and save the situation. A strange thing happened. At the time that Debendranath was getting the papers ready for a dissolution of the Trust, an irate trustee, Ramanath Thakur, forestalled him by filing a suit in the high court on behalf of Debendranath’s eight-year-old son, Dwijendra, claiming that the former had no right to break up a Trust formed by the minor’s grandfather to secure the future of his grandchildren. This law suit, Dwijendranath Tagore versus Debendranath Tagore, went on for several years but it had the desired effect of stalling Debendranath for the present. Ramanath Thakur had declared that he wouldn’t turn a hair if he saw his nephew’s children starving in the streets. But it was he who saved the family from oblivion.

  Another strange thing happened. The creditors were so impressed by the honesty and integrity of the Tagore brothers that they called a meeting to debate the question. Dwarkanath’s sons had honoured their father’s debt by surrendering all they had. They had even offered to give up the Trust property over which they had full legal right. It was a different matter that the validity of the transfer was now being disputed in court. But, with no income whatsoever, how would they live? After prolonged consultations with one another, the creditors unanimously resolved that a sum of twenty-five thousand rupees would be paid to the Tagores, every year, out of the profits of the surrendered tea gardens, mines, factories and shipyards.

  One afternoon, Dwarkanath’s second cousin, Prasanna Kumar Thakur of Pathuriaghata, sent his wife with a message to Jorasanko. ‘Deba’s uncle is hurt and offended,’ the lady said, helping herself to a paan from Sarada’s box. ‘He said. “I hear of what is happening in the family from outsiders! Why didn’t Debendra tell me he was so deeply in debt? I would have made the right arrangements.” Send Deba to our house first thing tomorrow morning, Bouma,’ she told Sarada. ‘He must meet his uncle without delay.’

  Debendra went the next morning. Prasanna Thakur was an astute old man. ‘I have heard about your difficulties,’ he said, without beating about the bush. ‘You are young and inexperienced. There is a way of dealing with such situations of which you know nothing. Now, listen to me carefully. Send me all the income from your estates as and when each instalment comes. I shall pay up your debt by degrees while leaving you enough to live on. Your creditors can’t fault you or say that you went back on your word.’ Debendranath touched his uncle’s feet and promised to obey.

  The tide turned. The family began to see better times and the guilt that had weighed down Debendra for the last many months, eased slowly. He began to see light. His debt would be paid and they would have a means to live. What was more, he was saved from violating his father’s will and robbing his children of their rightful inheritance. He took another decision. He had committed a serious error in neglecting the estates. He would make regular visits to his zamindari from now on. He would inspect and direct the workings of the officials himself.

  With this resolution, a change came over Debendranath. While his zeal for the new religion remained unabated, he began, consciously, to curb his tendency to become oblivious to everything else. He decided to take a more mature, more considered, position. In order to pursue his ideals and propagate them, he reasoned, he would have to live first. Therefore, it was important to have a means of living. He had missed being annihilated by a hair. It might happen again if he wasn’t careful. With time, many of his old fads and fancies died a natural death. The eating of dal-ruti and the wearing of homespun became a distant memory.

  Gradually, the house began to bear a semblance of what it had been. The rooms were refurnished, the stables restocked and some of the servants recalled. But in one thing Debendranath was adamant. They would live comfortably but not lavishly. No more unnecessary luxuries and no wastage. The family gradually recovered its lost prestige and began to be numbered, once again, among the great families of Kolkata. But they ceased to be mining magnates, planters or shipping tycoons. They became landed gentry. The gloss and glitter of Dwarkanath’s regime was gone forever. But a certain dignity an
d distinction became the hallmark of the Tagores of Jorasanko.

  II

  When Satyendranath got married, the main family, Dwarkanath’s children and their progeny, lived together as one unit in No. 5 Dwarkanath Tagore Street or Baithak Khana Bari as it was called. Cousins and dependents were lodged in the ancestral mansion No. 6. But the two buildings were linked by a passageway and treated as separate wings of a single dwelling. The activities of the household were shared, the kitchen was common, and the main family and the extended one moved freely from one part of the house to the other.

  But within a year of Genu’s arrival, a split, akin to the one that had divided the family half a century ago, took place. Debendranath moved out of Baithak Khana Bari and took up residence in the ancestral mansion which was legally his as per the terms of his father’s will. The widowed Jogmaya, Girindranath had died some years ago, continued to occupy No. 5 which was her husband’s legacy.

  Ever since his brother’s death, Debendranath had been pressurizing his sister-in-law to give up her worship of Hindu deities and embrace the Brahmo dharma. He had been successful in putting a stop to the annual Jagatdhatri Puja but his efforts to do the same with Durga Puja had failed in the face of Jogmaya’s fierce resistance.

  The Durga festival of Jorasanko was rated best among all the festivals celebrated in Kolkata. The images of the goddess and her offspring, wrought year after year by the family potters, were the largest and the most beautiful in the city. The decorations were the most artistic and the entertainments of the choicest quality and variety. Through the three nights of the celebrations, hundreds of men sat packed together in the courtyard of the mansion and even spilled out on the adjoining verandas, to see the jatra and khemta dancing and hear the kirtan, jhumur gaan and the kabir larai. The women sat in the galleries above, behind latticed screens. The house burst at the seams with relatives from distant villages and their accompanying servants. And at the gate, from morning till night, there was a constant stream of phaetons, curricles, hackneys and victorias coming in and going out. Children played and fought over new clothes and toys, and women vied with each other to show off new saris and jewels. The maids of the house, driven to distraction with all the extra work, found time, nevertheless, to flaunt their colourful saris and glass bangles before the eyes of the men – their co-servants as well as the outsiders – the hookah bearers, coachmen, valets and errand boys the babus had brought with them. Many a flirtatious glance was exchanged and many a handful of paan and sandesh crammed into one another’s mouth. A cloud of festivity hung in the air as tangible as the delectable aromas that rose from the cooking pits.