Despite these developments, the men of the two households met occasionally and exchanged news and pleasantries. But the women of No. 5 found it harder to forgive and forget. In any case, this being a Brahmo wedding, the Hindu branch had made it quite clear that they would keep away, though Jogmaya and Tripura had sent gifts and invited Sukumari and the other women of No. 6 for a pre-wedding lunch.
After a while, Genu rose and walked to her sister-in-law Soudamini’s room. Soudamini loved her and would take up the matter with her mother. The room was full of women, but Soudamini wasn’t there. Sukumari sat on the floor, on a small carpet, surrounded by dozens of female relatives who were decking her up in her bridal finery. One was etching her brow with sandal paste, another painting her feet with alta. Her mother sat next to her with a box of jewels on her lap. Genu recognized the box. It was the one she had brought with her from Narendrapur. Genu stared at the scene. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Sukumari was wearing her jewels. The three sets of bangles her father had given her, the peacock armlets, the heavy gold belt shaped like a sickle moon, and even as she stood dumb with shock, she saw Sarada Sundari fitting her filigree tiara on Sukumari’s brow. Though Genu had walked in very quietly, something made Sarada turn her head and look at her daughter-in-law. Her large flabby face turned pale and her double chin wobbled a little. Only for a moment, then she turned her head and went on with her task.
Genu tried to speak but her tongue felt stiff and dry and refused to move in her mouth. A stab of pain so sharp, it made her pupils burn, choked her throat. She felt dozens of eyes on her – some curious, some pitying and some others perplexed. She turned to leave the room. She went as far as the door then came back. ‘Ma,’ she said, finding her voice at last. ‘Why is—’
But Sarada took the words out of her mouth. ‘Why is Sukumari wearing your jewels? That’s what you want to ask me, don’t you, Mejo Bouma? Well, here is my answer. Your father-in-law spent a lot of money in sending your husband to England. He’s no crore pati as you know very well. From where was he to raise the cash for Sukumari’s jewels? That is why I have given her yours. You should have offered them yourself but since you didn’t…’ She left her sentence hanging in midair and looked away.
Genu stood where she was as though rooted to the ground. Her eyes were fixed on the masses of gold and gems that hung from Sarada’s neck and trailed down her vast bosom. Her ears were filled with the jingling from the rows of bangles that encased her mother-in law’s fat arms as she put the finishing touches to her daughter’s toilette. Then the girl turned and walked away.
As soon as she reached the door she started running. Stuffing the end of her sari into her mouth, willing the lump to stay stuck in her throat, she ran like a wild thing down the gallery towards her room. Suddenly, she heard a cry and her feet stopped. She stood nonplussed for a moment. Where had the cry come from? From within her? Had the pain she had tried so hard to suppress burst out of her chest in a wail so bitter? So piteous? Then she pulled herself together. Of course not. It was her mother-in-law’s newborn baby crying. A boy two months and twenty days old…
Following the direction of the sound, she came to a tiny room adjoining the birthing chamber. The room was dark and the child lay, all alone, on a narrow bed. There was no sign of the wet nurse or of anyone else. Everyone was busy enjoying the wedding. Lifting the baby in her arms, she felt something flow out of him, something that warmed and comforted her. They were of a kind, she thought. Both alone. Both unloved. She remembered what Subhankari had told her some days after the child was born. Though she had given birth to a boy, Sarada, she had said, was rather disappointed.
‘He’s ugly,’ Sarada had muttered, looking askance at her newborn.
‘He’s not ugly at all,’ Subhankari had retaliated indignantly. ‘You’re too fussy, Saro.’
‘Well he’s certainly darker than my other children. And look at his ears. How big they are! And how they stick out!’ Instructing the midwife to bathe him in milk, she had turned over on her side and gone to sleep.
But what neither Subhankari nor Genu knew was that Debendranath had sent for Anandachandra Vidyabagish soon after the birth and asked him to prepare the little one’s horoscope as he had done for all the other children. And, a few days later, Anandachandra had burst into the baar mahal, his mouth stretched in an exultant grin. ‘An outstanding conjunction of planets!’ he had cried. ‘A birth like this happens once in hundreds of years. This child’s sun is so strong – he will dazzle the world with the light of his genius.’
Debendra had smiled. ‘A good thing,’ he had said. ‘One of my tasks has been simplified. I’ve been racking my brains to find a suitable name for the boy. Since he was born on a Monday, it could have been Somendranath but that, as you know, has already been taken. Now that you say his sun is so strong, I shall name him Rabindranath. But your calculations had better be correct, Ananda. I don’t want you coming to me with a long face, confessing you bungled them.’
A couple of days after the wedding, her father-in-law sent for Genu. Soudamini came to call her. ‘Babamoshai has something to say to you,’ she said. ‘He told me to fetch you. Come with me.’ Her face hidden behind her ghumta, Genu followed Soudamini meekly to her mother-in-law’s apartment. Sarada sat on her bed, quite alone. A wooden casket, carved in a design of roses, peacocks and chinar leaves, rested on her lap. There was no sign of Subhankari or the maids with whom she was usually surrounded. From the corner of her eye Genu saw that the iron safe that stood by the far wall, in which all the family jewels were kept, was open just a chink. Her father-in-law stood at the foot of the bed, his hands locked behind his back. A look of concern and compassion shadowed his heavy, handsome face.
‘I’ve just heard about the loss of your jewels, Mejo Bouma,’ he said, speaking to her directly for the first time. ‘It was your stri dhan and should have remained yours. I can only say that I do not support what your mother-in-law has done. If there was a way of retrieving them I would have done so and returned them to you. Unfortunately, that is no longer possible since they’ve been given away with my daughter as part of the kanyadaan. But I’ll compensate you as best as I can.’ Turning to his wife he said, ‘Take out the diamond collar my father gave you and hand it over to Mejo Bouma.’
‘The… the d-d-diamond collar?’ Sarada’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.
‘Yes. I don’t know if it is worth all that you have lost, Mejo Bouma. But its value lies in the fact that it is one of the most precious of the family heirlooms. It is a collector’s item and was chosen by your grandfather-in-law who was a connoisseur of gems. Take it and keep it safe.’
‘Why give it to her now?’ Sarada hissed from behind her veil. ‘She’s only a child. She may lose it. Isn’t it enough that you’ve told her it is hers? She can take it from me whenever she wants to wear it.’
‘Give it to her.’ Debendra’s voice was inexorable. ‘She won’t lose it.’
Genu took the ornament in her hands. She remembered seeing it around her mother-in-law’s throat on the day of her badhu baran. It was a circlet, two inches wide, cunningly designed like a row of flowers intertwined with leaves and buds on a bed of black velvet. The centre of each flower was a diamond the size of a kul berry. The petals, leaves, buds and stems were formed of smaller stones. Hanging from the middle of the collar was a pendant in the shape of a butterfly, its wings outstretched, its antennae quivering. The diamonds flashed and sparkled in the sunbeams that poured in from the windows, broke them into millions of shards, and threw a riot of colours on the walls and ceilings.
Debendranath had become a very busy man. He had founded the Brahmo Samaj and the onus of building it up fell, quite naturally, on him. He was spending many hours of the day in chairing meetings at which ways and means of structuring and formalizing the new faith were discussed. There was a need, too, for dissemination. After all, what was the worth of a new religion if it remained restricted to a coterie? Debendranath was also actively in
volved with the zamindari. Dwarkanath had divided the estates equally between his three sons. But, in the absence of responsible male adults in the other branch, Debendranath was forced to take upon himself the entire burden of supervision. His brothers were dead. The only men in the house were Girin’s two sons. But the elder one, Ganendra, though twenty-two years old and quite sharp and intelligent, shrugged off his obligations, preferring to spend his time in writing plays and poems, organizing home theatricals and hobnobbing with literary and artistic personages. The younger, Gunendra, was still a boy.
Added to these preoccupations were Debendra’s frequent travels, for he was incapable of staying in one place for too long at a stretch. A few months in Kolkata and his soul yearned for escape. He had created for himself a hermitage near the village of Bolpur which he was visiting often. Travelling through Birbhum district, some years ago, he had come across a vast chhatim tree. It had waved its branches at him, as though they were arms, and the whistle of the wind in the leaves had spoken to him in a voice clearer than any he had ever heard. Come son, it had said. Your soul is weary. Come and rest it in my shade. Debendra had responded to the call. He had sat under the tree, prayed and meditated, and found a deep peace. He returned to the tree again and again. A year ago, he had bought twenty bighas of land around it, from the Singhas of Raipur, and built a small house. He called it Shantiniketan – the abode of peace – and went and lived in it whenever his heart was full and his spirit oppressed.
Yet, despite his many preoccupations, Debendranath never lost sight of his responsibilities as a father, one of which was to find suitable partners for his offspring at the right time. After Sukumari, it was Hemendranath’s turn to get married. But the task was getting more and more difficult. The Pirali taint was bad enough. It limited his options considerably. But, added to it now was the slur of being a Brahmo. Brahmins even from the Pirali community were reluctant to give their children in marriage to the Brahmo branch of the Tagore family. The ones who were tempted by its wealth and status were restrained by members of their clan. And Debendranath would not accept proposals from the lower castes. There was this strange contradiction in his character. He was a strict Brahmo and had abjured Hindu forms of worship. Yet he wouldn’t give up wearing the sacred thread and clung tenaciously to notions of caste hierarchy.
After a fairly long search, Debendranath identified Neepmayi, the ten-year-old daughter of Haradev Chattopadhyay of Santragachhi, as a possible bride for Hemendranath. He broached the subject to her father, an admirer of his, and won his immediate consent. Haradev was gradually coming under his influence and was well on his way to becoming a Brahmo but his brothers and cousins were horrified at the Brahmo connection and were determined to sabotage the proposed union. A few days before the wedding was to take place, a rumour reached Jorasanko that a hundred lathiyals had been hired and would be waiting at the wedding venue to beat up the bridegroom’s party and drive them away. But Debendranath was unfazed. The marriage had been arranged and would take place. He took a precaution, though. Informing the kotwali of what he had heard, he was able to procure a posse of policemen to accompany the bridal procession to Santragachhi and, when there, guard him and his guests against a possible attack.
Fortunately, nothing untoward happened. Hemendra left Jorasanko looking very handsome in a Varanasi silk dhuti-chador and the family jewels which his mother put on him while giving him her blessings. With ropes of pearls hanging from his neck and rubies and diamonds glittering on his forearms and fingers, he looked like a fairy-tale prince. Neepmayi’s mother was delighted and thought herself specially blessed in getting such a handsome son-in-law from such a wealthy and distinguished family.
Hemendra returned with a pretty bride and an even prettier ‘little bride’ or neet koney. Neepmayi’s younger sister Prafullamayi had wept so hard and so long at the thought of being parted from her beloved chhoto didi that their mother had been forced to send her for a few days along with the maid who accompanied the new bride to take care of her on the journey and to settle her in her new home.
The women of Jorasanko took to Prafullamayi instantly, most of all, Sarada. She was such a pretty little thing! Her skin was the colour of foaming milk, and smooth and glowing as satin. Under the satin lay rose-red embers which warmed her cheeks with a faint flush. Her eyes were huge, the whites whiter and the pupils blacker than any eyes Sarada had seen. And the lashes that ringed them were deep and thick and curled. She couldn’t be considered a classic beauty – her nose was too small and her mouth too full – but the glory of her dazzling skin and the charm of her flickering dimples on perfectly oval cheeks made up for these shortcomings.
‘Why! She’s just like a mem putul,’ Sarada gushed, drawing her into her lap. In her euphoria she quite forgot that Neepmayi was the new bride and should be the centre of attention. Covering Prafulla’s face with kisses and filling her hands and mouth with sweets, she asked, ‘Do you like this house, Ma? Would you like to live in it?’
‘H-u-u-unh.’ The five-year-old tilted her head, in agreement, as far as it would go. Her mouth was full of sandesh and she couldn’t speak.
‘I want her for my Biru,’ Sarada declared impulsively. ‘I’ll speak with Kartamoshai this very night. What do you think, Khuri?’ She turned, as she always did, to Subhankari.
‘For Nau Dada! What fun!’ Sukumari clapped her hands in delight. ‘I’ll call him and ask him if he likes her.’ Subhankari tried to stop her but Sukumari ran out of the room and reappeared, a few minutes later, dragging Birendranath by the hand. He was a young man of eighteen, tall and lanky, with a long nose and a pasty complexion. His cheeks were covered with pimples which he kept picking at with his fingernails. His eyes shifted uneasily from one face to another.
‘Nau Dada,’ Sukumari said, ‘this is Prafullamayi. She’s to be your wife.’
Birendra stared, long and hard, at the little girl sitting on his mother’s lap, her jaws working steadily on the sweets Sarada had given her. Then he announced solemnly, ‘I won’t marry her.’
‘Why not?’ A chorus of startled voices railed at him. ‘Where will you find a prettier bride?’
‘She may be pretty but she’s not bashful enough,’ Birendranath said severely. ‘I want a kala bou.’
‘A kala bou! What’s that?’ Subhankari asked, puzzled.
‘A kala bou!’ Birendranath repeated impatiently. ‘Don’t you understand? The bride God Ganesh married.’
‘But she’s only a banana plant wrapped in a sari.’ Peals of laughter came from the women.
‘She’s shy and modest,’ Birendra said. ‘My bride must be like her. She must keep her face hidden behind her ghumta day and night.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Subhankari said. ‘She’ll do that once she’s married.’
Everyone present, including Sarada and Subhankari, passed it off as a joke. No one realized that there was something wrong with what Birendra had said. After all, he was no child. He was eighteen years old and, though he lagged somewhat behind his younger brother Jyoti in studies, was fairly well educated.
Sarada expressed her desire to her husband that very night. ‘I want Sejo Bouma’s sister for Biru,’ she said. ‘All the girls that have come into our family, so far, are dark. This one has a complexion like a Persian rose.’
‘She’s very young,’ Debendra murmured.
‘The marriage needn’t take place immediately. We could wait a couple of years. But you must talk to her father soon and fix it.’
Debendra shook his head doubtfully.
‘You don’t understand,’ Sarada elaborated. ‘The girl is so pretty, she’ll get snapped up any moment. I’ve set my heart on this alliance. Don’t hesitate. Don’t deny me the satisfaction of having at least one truly beautiful daughter-in-law.’
Debendra looked solemn. ‘I worry about Biru sometimes,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not sure he’s developing the way he should.’ Shaking his head thoughtfully, he added, ‘Of course Dr Price Ridley seems to thin
k there’s nothing wrong. In fact he said that adolescent boys, unable to cope with their newly aroused sexuality in a reasoned way, often behave erratically. It is their way of expressing their need of a woman.’
‘Then why are we waiting?’ Sarada exclaimed joyfully. ‘Let’s get him married.’
‘You said the girl was only five years old.’
‘So what? Your mother was married at five. Besides Prafulla is so big and healthy, she’ll become a woman in the twinkling of an eye.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Debendranath pondered over the matter for a couple of months before speaking to Haradev. The latter gave his consent readily but he had one condition. The marriage would have to wait for another three years.
A few months after Hemendra’s wedding, Sarada gave birth to another boy. The cycle of bad luck, which had brought her three daughters one after another, seemed to have broken at last, for she had now produced three sons in succession. The newborn, following the precedent of his two immediately older brothers, was named after a heavenly body. After Somendranath and Rabindranath came Budhendranath. Since he was born on a Wednesday, the name was all the more appropriate.
At the time of Budhendra’s birth, the Brahmo dharma had been fairly well established in Kolkata and several areas beyond it. Rites pertaining to birth, death and marriage had been formulated. But Debendra’s household, while admitting the new structures, continued with old Hindu ways. Thus, the eighth day of Budhendra’s birth began with upasana and jaat karma sanskar and ended with aat kowre or the ritual of eight grains. This last was performed with the objective of driving out the malignant spirits which frequented birthing chambers and carried off the baby boy when mothers and midwives were careless. Their powers happened to be at their height for the first eight days after which they got diluted. The belief was that if a child survived the first eight days, it was safe and would live. For the weakened spirits, then, could be easily driven out. And this exorcizing was done through the ritual of aat kowre.
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