While in England, what had impressed him most was the liberty and equality enjoyed by females, and the healthy interaction that was the norm between the sexes. In a country where the sovereign was a woman it was but natural that wives and mothers were the undisputed monarchs of the household. Their views were respected by the men folk and their influence imbibed. And they weren’t confined to their homes either. They were free to work outside it. Some did so for gainful employment as nurses, teachers, factory workers, and shop assistants. Others dedicated much of their time to social work. How pathetic, in comparison, was the condition of Bengali women! Confined within the four walls of the abarodh, denied education, deprived even of the feel of the sun on their faces and the wind on their limbs, no wonder they grew up warped and stunted! Their souls, with no space to expand and develop, remained mean and narrow. Petty domestic politics, spite and malice, oppression of the weak and fawning on the strong made up their world.
One day, while walking down a street in London, he saw how smartly the women were dodging carriages and stepping over puddles and potholes, and how easily and freely they strode side by side with the men. The scene wasn’t unfamiliar. He had seen it often enough. But, that day for the first time, he noticed how sensibly they were dressed. Their thick woollen skirts of bright plaid and tartan, strong leather boots and stockings and large hats protected them so effectively against the chill and wind of that blustery November afternoon. He remembered a night in his apartment just before he left for England…
He had come in, quite late, after an evening in Monomohan Ghosh’s house where some of his friends from Presidency College had assembled for a last get-together before the two set sail. Keshab Sen had been there and Deenabandhu Mitra. Pratapchandra Majumdar and Mahendralal Sarkar had come too but hadn’t stayed for dinner. Pratap’s sister was getting married the following week and Mahendra was an egghead and couldn’t stay away from his books for long.
Entering his bedroom he found it empty. Taking off his pumps he settled himself on the bed, his feet, warm and cosy in their thick woollen socks, tucked comfortably under him. Opening a book he waited for his wife. She came in after a while and went straight to the lamp that burned in a niche by the far wall. There were many lamps in the room but this was the only one within her reach.
‘What are you doing there?’ he called. Then, wrapping his shahtoosh shawl tighter around his shoulders, he added impatiently, ‘It’s late. Come to bed.’
‘I’m terribly cold,’ Genu said, ‘I’ll just warm my hands for a while.’
Satyendra looked up with a frown. He felt as warm as toast. How could she be cold? Then, with a shock, he saw that her teeth were chattering and her lips were tinged blue. Her feet were bare against the icy marble and all she wore was a single length of cloth; a fine cotton sari from Farashdanga with a broad intricately woven border. It was an expensive sari but… His heart missed a beat. He had been married for four years. He had seen her, every night, through five winters and never realized that the way she dressed gave her no protection against the terrible chill that rose from the old mouldy walls and marble floors of the mansion. Guilt and shame that he too had been negligent towards her lent an edge to his voice as he asked, ‘Why are you dressed like that?’
‘Dressed like what?’ Genu turned to look at him.
‘Like that. Only a thin sari. Why don’t you wear a shawl?’
‘A shawl? Where would I get a shawl?’ Genu raised large, bewildered eyes to her husband’s face.
‘Do you mean to tell me you don’t have a shawl? Babamoshai bought a big pile only a month ago.’
‘Ma keeps all the shawls in her trunk. She gives us one each when we go visiting. I have a dolai but I’ve left it somewhere. I can’t find it.’
‘Come to me,’ he commanded. Pulling her in his arms he wrapped half his shawl around her and commenced chafing her icy hands and feet with his warm, dry ones. Genu tried to protest, to push his hand away, but he held her tighter to his chest and hissed through clenched teeth, so low that even she couldn’t catch the words, ‘Our culture! Our great, ancient, Indian culture and its view of women! How I hate it… hate it.’
‘What are you saying?’ Genu placed her hand against her husband’s mouth and cried out in alarm, ‘Why are you talking to yourself like a madman?’
Satyendra pulled himself together. There was no need to frighten Genu. He was going away soon and he needed to cheer and comfort her so that her last memories of their time together should be happy ones. Smiling, he turned to her and launched on a spirited account of the evening he had spent with his friends and the mouth-watering delicacies Monomohan’s mother had served.
But walking down Young Street, all the bitter feelings he had subdued that night came surging back to his breast. He thought of his mother and the fifteen children she had borne. His father, revered as a saint and sage – Keshab Sen, who had become his ardent disciple, had given him the title of Maharshi and that is what people had started calling him these days – hadn’t considered, for one moment, what her incessant childbearing was doing to his wife, how it was eroding her health and strength. She was in her thirties but she looked like an old woman. Her loose, flaccid body, white face, scanty hair and sunken eyes clearly indicated that she was severely anaemic. That was why she felt so lethargic and listless and lay sprawled on her bed all day.
Females, conservative Hindus argued, were required by society to perform only two functions. To serve as sex partners to men and to perpetuate their lineage. Since they spent their nights in their husbands’ beds and their days huddled in kitchens and storerooms, where they were seen only by other women, why did they need more than a single length of cloth to cover their bodies? Jackets? Nonsense. Women from good families kept their heads and shoulders sufficiently bowed and their veils pulled down to their chests, at all times, so that every inch of their bodies was decently covered. Any other garment was a total waste. These new-fangled notions came from worthless upstarts who wanted to ape the firingees and turn their women into memsahebs. Chhi! Chhi! It was not only vulgar. It was downright irreligious.
That afternoon, walking through the cold November squall, Satyendra made a vow. He would get his wife away from Jorasanko. He would take her wherever he was posted and make a modern woman of her. She would associate with educated and enlightened men and women, dress with dignity and hold her head high. She would take lessons in English and French, learn to play the piano, go to parties and even travel abroad. He would speak to his father about it as soon as he reached Kolkata. Babamoshai would oppose it. But Satyendra would have his way.
Satyendra wasn’t thinking only of his wife. He was equally determined to breathe new life into the old feudal set-up of the family mansion. The task would be difficult. His father believed in the education of women. He encouraged his daughters and daughters-in-law to improve themselves academically. But that was as far as he would go. Despite the changeover to a new, reformed religion, the social laws that governed Hindu women remained as rigid as ever in his household.
Immediately upon his arrival in Jorasanko, Satyendra started putting his ideas in motion. He had parts of the building renovated, furnished some of the rooms with modern furniture, and brought Western food into the daily menu. The inevitable luchi, fried vegetables and milk breakfasts were supplemented with the healthier porridge, toast and eggs. He also introduced the English custom of drinking afternoon tea. Every day, punctually at four o’clock, servants came into Satyendra’s apartments bearing a vast silver tray with a silver teapot, in which the finest Darjeeling leaves were brewing, a silver kettle of hot water on a tripod, cream, lumps of sugar and cups and plates of rose-patterned china. All the adults of the family were welcome to join him for a ‘cuppa’ and a nibble of the cakes and shortbread that went with it.
Satyendra’s tea circle began with four or five members, then the idea caught on and spread rapidly. His brothers, sisters and their spouses became so enamoured of the golden beverage t
hat the tinkle of silver spoons against eggshell-fine teacups started sounding sweeter in their ears than music. Gradually, more circles were formed, in other apartments, and the ritual of afternoon tea became a fixture in the routine of Jorasanko. This sharing of tea led to something else. It brought about a loosening in the rigid structure of relationships. The custom of observing purdah from the elder males of the family slackened and the daughters-in-law of the house became freer and more articulate.
But the most radical of Satyendra’s improvements was the building of bathing rooms, one on each floor, for the exclusive use of the family’s women. Prior to this there was only one bathing room in the house. It belonged to Debendranath and could be used by his sons and sons-in-law only during his absences from Jorasanko. The women bathed in batches by a giant reservoir on the ground floor. Only one or two of the older women went down to the pond, heavily veiled and escorted by their serving women. The younger daughters and daughtersin-law of the house were given no choice. Maids oiled their hair and bodies, applied rooptaan and poured pitchers full of water on their heads. Satyendra’s third sister, Saratkumari, loved her bath so much, she could never have enough of it. Genu had told him that when the maids complained that their arms ached from lifting the heavy pitchers, she jumped into the tank and swam from one end to the other to the acute annoyance of the next batch of bathers. Well, Sarat could have a bathing room to herself now. She could turn on the shower and bathe, undisturbed, for as long as she liked.
Satyendra also sought an audience with his father and informed him of his intention of taking his wife with him when he left for Bombay. Debendranath frowned. ‘Haven’t you caused enough disruption already?’ he demanded angrily, ‘with your repairs and refurnishings and your new-fangled notions of health and hygiene? You’ve turned the house upside down! Now you want to break the walls of the abarodh…’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Satyendranath said quietly. ‘I’ve only tried to make the house more habitable for its inmates, particularly our women.’
‘Have they complained of any discomfort? Why do you set yourself up as their champion?’
‘They don’t even know that they have a right to complain. They’ve been conditioned, so thoroughly, to accept their lot in life that they have no idea that something is missing.’
‘And what, pray, is missing?’
‘Babamoshai,’ Satyendra’s tone became impassioned, ‘I have seen how women are treated in the West. They are equal to men in every way. The contrast is appalling.’
‘Don’t forget that we are Indians, not Europeans. Their rules cannot apply to us.’
‘Why not? Good rules, humane systems, should be adopted by all civilized people. Why are their women free of all restrictions and ours—’
‘I don’t wish to enter into an argument, Sotu,’ Debendranath interrupted, ‘but understand this. Ours is a very old culture and its roots have gone very deep. Change can take place and will but slowly. Any attempt at rushing things will result in chaos.’
‘But equality and freedom won’t fall into women’s laps! People must work at it. If Rajamoshai and Vidyasagarmoshai hadn’t pushed so hard, we would still be burning our widows alive.’
‘Even they didn’t advocate the dissolution of the abarodh.’
‘They advocated widow remarriage and education for women.’
‘So do I. The latter at any rate.’
‘But what will it lead to? An educated woman will find it all the more difficult to accept the rules of the abarodh. Education must go hand and hand with freedom. One without the other is meaningless.’
‘Societies evolve, Sotu. There’s a time for everything. Some of our social evils have been wiped away already. The rest will follow. The trouble with young men like you, particularly those who have been educated in England, is that you are in too much of a hurry.’
‘I don’t agree. And I don’t believe that the concept of the abarodh exists all over India. You’ve travelled a lot and seen various parts of the country. Where else is a woman so tied down as she is in Bengal?’
‘Your knowledge of your own country is pitifully inadequate. Forget England and Europe. Make a close study of India. Examine her history, geography, culture and traditions. Now that you’re a member of the Civil Service this knowledge will be useful; even necessary. In the meantime, work for the uplift of the women of India if you must. I have no objection. But understand one thing clearly. I will brook no disruption of the rules of my household. Our women have never left the abarodh. Neither will Mejo Bouma. She’ll stay here where she belongs.’
‘But I must take her with me sometime or the other,’ Satyendra said, his voice sharp with anxiety. ‘As a civilian officer of the Bombay cadre all my postings will fall outside Bengal. Shall we be parted for ever? What sort of marriage will that be?’
Debendranath was silent. For the first time he looked worried. This aspect of his son’s work hadn’t occurred to him. ‘All your postings?’ he asked slowly.
‘All,’ Satyendra answered.
Debendranath chewed his lip, considering the matter. ‘You have a point there,’ he conceded at last. Rising to his feet he added, ‘Let me think about it. You’ll have my answer by tomorrow.’
Debendranath gave his permission the very next day. Sarada was appalled when the news reached her. ‘What have you done?’ she upbraided her husband. ‘You’ve broken the rules framed by our ancestors and obeyed over generations.’
‘Times have changed and our circumstances with it. Blind adherence to rules is no longer in our interest.’
‘Why not? Women have lived, safe and secure, in the abarodh for centuries. You’ve upheld the system, yourself, all these years. What has happened now?’
‘Satyendra is a servant of the British government. His work will take him away from Bengal – to the south. We can’t keep his wife with us for all time to come. We’ll have to let her join him sooner or later. So why not now?’
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. One of my uncles, my Nau kaka, was Dewan to the Raja of Kashipur and lived away from home. He came once or twice a year, for a few days, with boxes and bundles full of presents for everyone in the house. How we loved it when he came! It was like a celebration. Lots of sweets and snacks were made. Nau kaki went around beaming behind her veil. But there was never any question of her going off to Kashipur. Why should Mejo Bouma—’
‘Your son wants to take his wife.’
‘He has become quite shameless. You shouldn’t have sent him to England.’
‘I have no regrets.’ Debendranath smiled. ‘He has brought honour to the family. If he has picked up alien ideas, ideas which differ from mine, well, I must put up with them I suppose. After all, I didn’t follow in my father’s footsteps, did I?’
Sarada was silent for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, she said in a harsh, hissing voice. ‘I’m sure it isn’t his idea. That cat-eyed, mealy mouthed wife of his must have nagged him to take her along. He is a good boy. He wouldn’t go against his father’s wishes.’
‘Nonsense! He’s ten years older than her. He should know what he wants. Besides, there’s a practical aspect to the question, Bado Bou. Our son will need a woman in his life. Someone to take care of him, manage the servants…’
‘What does she know of managing anything? Has she ever lifted a finger in this house?’
‘She hasn’t been required to. When the task falls on her, she will learn and learn quickly. Hemendra tells me she is very intelligent.’
‘Book learning isn’t everything.’
‘Perhaps not. But it indicates intelligence and the ability to learn. Besides,’ Debendranath moved closer to his wife and whispered, ‘do you want your son to live as a celibate all his life? Or worse still, to go to bad women?’
Sarada’s face crumpled. She bit her lip and nodded slowly. ‘You’re right. I got to know, years later, that Nau kaka had kept a woman in Kashipur. A coarse, common woman, an ayah in the royal palace. Everyon
e knew, even Nau kaki. But she never complained. Even when he came back with a venereal disease, she never said a word. She nursed him till his death. Perhaps that was why all her children were stillborn.’ She sighed and added, ‘A man needs a woman. We’ll have to let Mejo Bouma go.’
The first hurdle over, Satyendra had to tackle the next. What was his wife to wear on the journey? There being no overland route to Bombay, they would have to go by sea. The voyage would take six to seven days. The way she dressed now was quite unsuitable. After much deliberation, he decided to take the help of a French milliner, with a large establishment in the city, who came up with a novel idea. How would it be if he designed an ‘oriental dress’ for the lady? Satyendra ordered four outfits and came home to share the good news with Genu. The ‘oriental dress’ sounded just right. Upper-class Indian men adopted Muslim attire for formal occasions. Why not women?
There was much excitement the day the dresses arrived in four huge cardboard boxes. Genu’s maids and sisters-in-law hovered around her as she lifted each piece from its wrappings of tissue and ribbon. But when she began trying on one of them, she discovered that it was the most cumbersome set of clothes she had ever seen – a prickly brocade double-breasted shirt with full sleeves worn over a pair of voluminous pyjamas. A veil covering the head and nagra sandals embroidered with gold thread and beads completed the ensemble. The donning of the outfit posed a grave problem for Genu. There were so many hooks and buttons, tapes and lacings that she, used to wrapping a length of cloth around her in half a minute, couldn’t figure out what went where. Neither could anyone else. Finally, hot and bothered and nearly in tears, she sent for her husband. After his arrival, another half an hour was spent in struggling with the dress but the ordeal was over at last. Once everything was in place, the shoes on her feet and her veil fixed securely on her head with pins, she felt as though she was weighed down with lead. Her heart sank for the first time since she’d been told she was to accompany her husband to his place of work.
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