A huge winnowing tray filled with popped rice and eight kinds of fried and roasted lentils, representing the demonic forces, was carried into the courtyard at dusk on the eighth day, and the boys of the house and neighbourhood fell upon it with sticks amidst shrieks of aat kowre, baat kowre, chhele ache bhalo – Eight grains! Wicked grains! Our boy is alive and well. The frenzied flailing made the poor rice and lentils fly about in alarm and seek sanctuary in the most unlikely places – on rooftops, in the forks of trees and in drains and gutters. Needless to say, this exercise was conducted only on the birth of a boy, evil spirits weren’t interested in girls, and it was only boys who were given the onerous task of beating the winnowing tray and driving out the demons. However, Hindu society was lenient enough to allow little girls to watch the scene and to jeer and clap as the rice flew about like snowflakes. And they weren’t deprived of the goodies that followed either. Each child was given a mound of popped rice and gram in which eight salted snacks and eight sweets were discreetly hidden. Some generous families might put in eight new coins – shining pies, paisas or annas – as befitted their wealth and status.
Budhendra’s aat kowre was performed with all the fanfare that had marked those of his older brothers. Nothing was missing. Annas, fresh from the mint, were given out instead of paisas. Snacks and sweets were prepared in mountains. And a vast gang of boys, reinforced with a contingent from Pathuriaghata, flailed the tray with tremendous gusto and shouted and jeered loud enough to frighten away the most stout-hearted of evil spirits.
Yet, something went wrong. Just when Sarada was congratulating herself with the thought that the spell of ill luck which had dogged her was broken, Budhendra died. He had lived for only three months and five days. With his death, a shadow fell over Sarada’s ‘golden womb’. The dead Budhendra was Sarada Sundari’s last child.
VI
Five-year-old Rabindranath was a lovely little boy, allaying his mother’s fears that he would grow up to be the least attractive of her children. He was tall for his age, slender yet robust, and his big dark eyes held a faraway look, a sort of yearning. As though he saw a world beyond this one; a magical world that lay within his reach, if only he could find the golden key which would unlock its doors. He was soft spoken and gentle, somewhat timid, quite unlike his boisterous brother Som or Soudamini’s spoiled brat Satyaprasad, with whom he made up a threesome. Though Robi was two years younger than them, they studied together, swam and played, and did bodybuilding exercises with weights and dumbbells under the stern eye of Hemendranath who had set himself up as a guide and mentor to the children of the family. The rest of their welfare was in the hands of family retainers. A servant called Shyam oiled, bathed and dressed the boys and another called Ishwar was in charge of their meals.
Ishwar was an old man who had once been a gurumoshai in a pathshala and believed in the golden rule of ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’. Thus there was no stinting in the doling out of slaps and punches and wringing of ears. The boys took all this in their stride as they did the constant withholding of their share of goodies by the sanctimonious Ishwar who was convinced that a few pangs of hunger did a world of good to a boy’s soul. Besides, he was an opium addict and needed, or thought he needed, vast quantities of nourishing food and milk to counter the effects of the deadly drug. And from where could he procure it except from the shares of his little charges?
Children are apt to dislike milk and often refuse to drink their portions. Ishwar was most affable at these times and, out of excessive love, allowed them to have their way. ‘All right, all right,’ he would concede with an indulgent smile, ‘I’m letting you off today but, remember, this will be the last time. If you don’t drink milk, how will you grow big and strong like Kartamoshai? Haven’t you seen what a huge bowl of milk Bado Didimoni gives him every morning?’ The boys nodded. It was true. Soudamini filled an enormous crystal bowl with two and a half seers of milk, every day, and carried it to her father’s room after the morning upasana. And who could deny that Debendranath enjoyed the most vigorous, most robust heath? However, Ishwar’s ‘last time’ extended itself indefinitely to the deep delight of the boys.
But their elation changed to frustration when the rest of the meal was served. Luchis, piled high in a wooden basin, were placed tantalizingly before the boys but doled out in driblets. Ishwar had perfected the technique. Holding a luchi between the thumb and forefinger as disdainfully as if he held a mouse by the tail, the wily servant dangled it in front of his charges with a cryptic, ‘Want?’ Som and Satya said, ‘Yes’ the first ten or twelve times then gave up. They were big eaters, particularly Som, and played the game for as long as they could. But Robi dared not look up at Ishwar’s face. Because the moment he did so, he would have to say, ‘No.’ Ishwar’s mouth would be smiling but his eyes would be glistening with greed. Consequently, Robi hung his head and mumbled ‘Yes’ only once or twice. Then someone, something, willed him to look up. Unable to bear the pleading in the old man’s eyes, he shook his head though his stomach rumbled with hunger. The outcome was that he had not only to go hungry, he had also to endure the taunts of the other boys who called him a fool and a softy. Ishwar had other ways of supplementing his own meals. He was given a fixed sum of money, every day, to buy sweets and snacks from the bazaar for the children’s tiffin. When asked what they wanted, Som and Satya demanded expensive stuff like kochuri and halwa, gaja, jilipi or rabri and rosogolla. But when Ishwar fixed his gimlet eyes on Robi’s dark swimming ones and asked, ‘And what shall I bring for you, Robi babu?’ he looked the other way and mumbled, ‘Muri and gram.’ He knew that these came very cheap and therefore this answer would be the most pleasing to Ishwar.
Genu had nurtured a special feeling for Robi from the day she had first held him in her arms. Since his mother had neither the time nor the inclination to raise the child, Soudamini had taken on the responsibility with Genu’s help. They knew how the servants treated the boys but whenever they tried to bring it to the notice of the mistress she cried out in exasperation, ‘Why do you bother me with all these complaints? Do I employ the servants? Speak to your Babamoshai.’ But how were they to do so? Debendranath was out of Kolkata most of the time and even when at home was too busy to look into the nitty-gritty of the household.
One day, when Genu was putting away some books in the room where the children studied, she saw a piece of paper fluttering in one corner of the floor. Picking it up, she saw that it bore a few lines in Robi’s handwriting. Though Hemendra complained that Robi did not apply himself enough, that he spent most of his lesson time daydreaming and staring out of the window at the pond and coconut trees, he had learned to read quite fluently and he wrote a neat and steady hand. But this, Genu noted, wasn’t an exercise in tracing letters, the kind Hemendra gave his younger pupils to improve their handwriting. It was six lines in the form of a verse. Knitting her brows, Genu read: Aam satwa dudhe pheli
A mango sheet I drop in milk
I mash a banana and put it in.
A lump of sandesh mixed therein
Hapus! Hupus! The sound of gulps
Breaks the silence all around
An ant crawls weeping by…
Genu stood still for a minute, one end of her mouth lifted in a sweet, crooked smile. Then, folding the paper, she thrust it in her bosom and went looking for Robi. She found him in the long veranda of the baar mahal, which looked out on the street. He was swaying and jumping a step at a time with a stick between his legs which he kept in place with his left hand. The movements he made resembled the prancing of a frisky horse. In his right hand was a long bamboo switch with which he was striking the railings, most cruelly. ‘Faster! Faster!’ he urged his horse and struck harder and harder, his face red and pouring with sweat. ‘Robi! Robi!’ his sister-in-law called out to him. But he couldn’t hear her. How could he? His ears were filled with the rushing of the wind as his horse galloped over the vast desolate stretch of Tepantar beyond which lay the palace in which the b
eautiful princess was imprisoned in an iron tower. He had to ride hard to reach her. He had to get there by daylight for the night held many terrors. There were lions and tigers lurking in the bushes and thugs and dacoits hiding in the most unlikely places waiting to fall upon him. But he wasn’t afraid. He was the world’s bravest, most invincible prince, wasn’t he? And if he didn’t save the poor princess, who would? ‘Faster, faster,’ he urged his horse far beyond the poor creature’s endurance. He had to hurry. Daylight was slipping away and it was getting dark. A huge mass of grey cloud loomed over his head like a herd of elephants packed tightly together. Thunder rumbled menacingly and lightning, forked like the tongues of the serpents that slithered under his horse’s hooves, shot across the sky. How much further was the palace? Would he reach it? He had to. If he didn’t who would rescue the beautiful—?
Suddenly a pair of arms clasped him from behind and the voice that had seemed all this while to come from a vast distance became loud and clear. ‘Robi! Robi!’ his Mejo Bouthan cried. ‘Can’t you see it is raining? You’re all wet!’ Dragging him, stick and all, to a safe distance, she wiped his head with her sari. ‘Why are you jumping about in the rain?’ she demanded, ‘and what were you muttering and mumbling?’
The fiery spirit with which Robi had set off on his dangerous mission was snuffed out in an instant. He hung his head, crestfallen, and couldn’t answer. Genu thought of the poem he had written and asked, ‘Have you had your tiffin?’
‘Hoonh.’
‘What did you have?’
‘Muri and gram.’
‘Why?’ Genu’s brows came together. ‘I saw Ishwar Kaka bring a big basket of kochuri, aloor dam and jilipi from the bazaar. Why didn’t you get any?’
Robi smiled and looked sheepish.
‘I know,’ Genu exclaimed angrily, ‘that wicked old man eats up your share. Why don’t you tell Ma?’
Robi shook his head. His face turned pale. ‘Na, na,’ he said quickly. ‘He doesn’t. I myself…’
‘Nonsense!’ Genu knew Robi would never talk to his mother. He was afraid of Ishwar. And who could say how the old devil would punish the boys if he knew they had complained against him? She sighed and said, ‘Come to my room every day when you are back from school. I’ll keep some food for you.’
A light glowed in Robi’s eyes and he nodded eagerly. Gudum! A great burst of thunder startled Genu. She sprang to her feet, her hands on her ears. She was nervous of storms and, even more, of being caught outside the abarodh. If anyone saw her here and reported to her mother-in-law, she would get the lecture of her life. ‘Come away, Robi!’ she cried, her voice blown away by the whipping wind.
But Robi did not move. He stood where he was as though mesmerized. The sky grew darker, the wind wilder and the rain pelted down in torrents. Within minutes water stood knee-deep in the street and the kadamba tree, with its load of drenched yellow blossoms, rose out of it like the shaggy head of a firingi witch. Suddenly, a thought struck him and his heart leaped with joy. This storm was too fierce. It would keep his English tutor away.
But even as the thought came to him, a dilapidated black umbrella turned the corner and came rapidly up the street. Robi’s face paled. It was Aghor Babu’s umbrella. Aghor Babu came every evening at six, and continued drubbing his charges’ brains with the dullest, most tedious lessons till the grandfather clock in the hall struck the ninth hour. Robi hated his English lessons and couldn’t wait for them to get over. Every evening he hoped and prayed that something, anything, a headache or a stomach ache, would keep the man away. But alas! The good tutor was faithful to his salt, and his black umbrella turned the corner of Dwarkanath Tagore Street punctually, at five minutes to six, come storm, wind or hail.
‘Mejo Bouthan!’ Robi clasped Genu’s knees. ‘Tell Mastermoshai… tell him Robi has a fever and can’t study…’
‘Me?’ Genu threw up her hands. ‘How can I tell him anything? Am I allowed to talk to him? Besides, you must learn English. How will you go to England and become an ICS officer if you don’t know any English?’
‘From tomorrow,’ Robi promised recklessly, ‘I’ll study hard from tomorrow. If you can’t talk to him – talk to Ma. Tell her…’
‘Oray Baba!’ Genu shook her head. ‘I can’t do that. Why don’t you tell her yourself?’
Robi glanced at the street from the corner of his eye. The umbrella had almost reached the gates. Jumping up, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him, till he reached his mother’s room. The lamps had not been lit and the gloom of a monsoon dusk was creeping through the windows. Sarada sat on her bed, paan box by her side, playing cards with Subhankari.
‘Ma!’ Robi gasped, running to her. Sarada was studying her cards with knitted brows and shaking her head dolefully. ‘Ma! Ma!’ Robi cried again, tugging at her sari.
‘What is it, child?’ Sarada asked perfunctorily, not bothering to look at him. ‘Don’t trouble me now. Can’t you see I am busy?’
‘Ma!’ Robi was desperate. Mastermoshai would be entering the house any minute now and Shyam would be despatched to fetch him. He gave Sarada’s anchal a violent pull and cried out tearfully. ‘Listen to me, na… Send word to Mastermoshai… tell him Robi won’t study this evening.’
‘Why ever not?’ Sarada’s eyes were still on her cards.
‘Because… because I… I don’t feel well.’
‘It’s so dark in here,’ Sarada muttered fretfully, ‘I can’t see my cards properly. Why haven’t they lit the lamps yet? Kalo, O Kalo!’
‘Ma!’ Another tug.
‘Aa molo! This child will be my death. What’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m not well. I can’t take my English lesson…’ Sarada touched her hand briefly to her son’s brow. A cool, soft, lily-white hand. Robi wished she would keep it there for a long, long time. But, just then, Kalo came into the room.
‘Oray Kalo!’ Sarada commanded, ‘send somebody from the tosha khana to light the lamps in this room. Oh! Yes, and tell the tutor that Robi Babu has a fever and won’t study this evening.’
Robi jumped up and down in delight, then cuddled up to Subhankari. ‘Tell me a story, Didima,’ he begged.
‘Later,’ Subhankari promised, ‘let me finish this game with your mother.’
‘You’ve been playing all day,’ Robi whined and pushed out his lower lip. ‘And you’ll play again tomorrow…’
‘Why don’t you go and lie down if you’re not feeling well?’ Sarada snapped. ‘Why are you bothering us?’
Robi pushed closer to Subhankari. Patting and squeezing the soft flesh on her large round arm, he kept asking every ten seconds, ‘How much longer, Didima?’ till Sarada threw down her cards in exasperation. ‘You’d better listen to him, Khuri. He won’t give us any peace till you do. And see – they still haven’t lit the lamps! Really! The servants of this house are the laziest bunch of rascals I’ve ever seen. I’ll drive them all out one of these days.’
Subhankari put her arm around Robi. His skin felt cold to her touch. The air was damp and chilly and all he was wearing was a short dhuti. Passing her anchal around his bare back, she drew him close. ‘Which story do you want to hear?’ she asked, smiling.
‘The one about the princess locked up in the tower.’
Subhankari took a deep breath. ‘Once upon a time,’ she began in the slightly nasal, singsong voice she affected while telling a story, ‘long long ago, there was a king. He lived in a great big palace across the Tepantar. The palace had seven thousand doors and seven thousand windows. Seven thousand soldiers guarded the battlements and seven thousand lamps were lit every night. The king had a b-e-a-u-t-i-ful daughter. She was good and kind and everyone loved her. Everyone except her wicked stepmother, the Suo rani…’
‘How beautiful?’ Robi asked eagerly. ‘You forgot to tell… how beautiful?’
‘Well! Her skin was as white and soft as hoar frost. And her eyes as black as night.’
‘And her hair?’ In his excitement, Robi pinched Su
bhankari’s arm quite hard. ‘Didima, her hair?’
‘It was as smooth and fine as spun silk. And it reached, let me see, hunh… it reached from here to your mejo kaki’s room in Baithak Khana Bari…’ A delicious shudder passed down Robi’s spine as Subhankari went on, ‘And when she smiled, rubies dropped from her lips. And when she wept, pearls…’
Outside, the wind rose and fell with a sound like the ebb and flow of waves in the sea. The rain fell in torrents. The newly lit lamps flickered, throwing giant shadows on the walls. Robi snuggled closer to his grandmother and listened to the quaint singsong voice, his eyes huge with wonder.
1864–1867
I
Satyendra’s homecoming was an occasion for great rejoicing, not only for his family and friends but for all the people of India. For he had returned as the country’s first Indian civil servant. He had cleared the ICS examination with flying colours and even made it to the merit list. He had stood sixth out of the fifty-two candidates culled, after careful consideration, to take the final examination. Needless to say, most of them were British. It took a year or so, after his return, for the Government of India to issue orders for his first posting as assistant collector and magistrate of Ahmedabad in the Bombay Presidency.
Satyendra was twenty-three years old. His years in England and his exposure to Western ideals and modes of living had changed him from a shy, diffident youth, largely under the influence of his father, to a man with a mind of his own. He had set up a certain goal which he was determined to follow, without wavering or hesitation, just as his father followed his. Unlike Debendranath, who had assumed responsibility for cleansing the Hindu religion of its impurities and recreating it, Satyendra’s mission was to reform Hindu society. His dream was to purge it of its taboos and stigmas and loosen its rigid structures, especially as they pertained to women.
Jorasanko Page 10