‘For how many days do I have to wear this dress?’ she asked dolefully. ‘From when can I start wearing a sari again?’
Satyendra burst out laughing. She looked so comic with her small face swathed in that enormous veil and her slight body lost in those huge shapeless garments! ‘We’ll see,’ he said, chucking her under the chin.
The day before their departure, Debendranath sent for his son. ‘How do you propose to reach Koilaghata?’ he demanded, adding, ‘I mean, how do you propose to convey Mejo Bouma to the dockyard?’
‘She’ll go with me of course.’ Satyendra was surprised by the question.
‘Undoubtedly,’ his father said dryly. ‘But how? Women of the Tagore family do not travel by carriage. Will you be sitting with her in the palki?’
‘Of course not.’ Satyendra hated palkis. The sight of six or eight men sweating and panting to carry a single person was abhorrent to him. ‘Why can’t she come with me in the carriage?’
‘Because she’ll have to walk through the baar mahal to the porch in order to do so. No daughter-in-law of the house has shown herself to the employees.’
‘But Koilaghata is so far away. It would be cruel to the bearers. Besides, the palki cannot be carried into the cabin. She’ll have to get off at the jetty. All the men in the dockyard will see her then. What harm will it do anyone if employees of our own household see her?’
Debendra sighed. He could have pointed out that it wasn’t the same thing. The men in the dockyard wouldn’t know that they were seeing a daughter-in-law of the Tagore family unless they noticed the crest on the palki which, in the chaos and confusion of a ship about to sail, was highly unlikely. But the employees would gobble her with their eyes and gossip about it for months afterwards. Everyone in the city would come to know and his uncles Ramanath and Prasanna Tagore would send for him and give him a talking to. But, to tell the truth, he was weary of the whole business and was anxious for it to be over. He had had too many arguments with his ‘Englandreturned’ son and didn’t care to enter into another. In fact, the sooner he and his wife left Jorasanko the better. They could, then, all go back to their normal lives.
‘You have an answer for everything, Sotu,’ he said with a resigned sigh. ‘Your mother will oppose it. You’ll have to persuade her.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Satyendra coaxed and cajoled his mother, for hours, into giving her consent. Sarada did so, in the end, but with a heavy heart. She felt crushed and defeated. The old way of life, the only way she had known from the time she had set foot in this mansion, was slipping away. And with it was going all the values she had been taught, the values she had upheld and nurtured all these years – the absolute authority of the patriarch, the honour and dignity of the mistress of the household, the obedience of sons and the subservience of daughters-in-law. Her second son’s rebellion wasn’t an isolated event. The others would follow in his footsteps. And she, the custodian of the family traditions, was powerless to prevent it. What made it worse for her was that behind it she could see the hand of a woman – a plain, sallow, fourteen-year-old village girl who derived her power from the unstinted, unconditional love and support of her husband. Sarada’s heart burned within her.
That night, Debendranath came into his apartments to find his wife lying on the bed, her clothes dishevelled, her eyes swollen with weeping. He had never seen her look like that. She made it a point, always, to do up her hair neatly and wear a special sari before coming to him. ‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked, surprised. ‘Do you feel unwell?’
Sarada sat up and raised her tear-streaked face to her husband’s. The ghumta had slipped from her head and her face with its domed forehead and scanty, unkempt hair looked stark and naked in the lamplight. Her eyes rained fire though tears still clung to the lashes.
‘Why, Bado bou,’ he began but Sarada cut him short.
‘I came to this house as a child,’ she said slowly. ‘I accepted all its rules and made them my own. I revered you, my husband, as my God and followed you like a shadow. Even when you commanded me to abandon the religion I was born to, that which was part of my very blood and marrow, even then I obeyed you. But you… what have you given me in return? Have you given me your love?’
‘Of course,’ Debendranath answered in a shocked voice. ‘I’ve never looked at another woman!’
‘That’s fidelity, not love.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘There’s a world of difference. You’ve been faithful to me not because I am I. But because fidelity to a wife is one of your ideals.’
Debendranath did not deign to reply. He lay down on his side of the bed and closed his eyes.
‘I feel diminished, unworthy,’ Sarada continued, wiping her wet face with her sari. ‘I wish to go to the holy Ganga tomorrow morning to purify myself with a penitential dip.’
Debendra turned to look at her. ‘I thought you agreed with me,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that the Ganga is neither pure nor holy. It is only one of the many rivers of the world—’
‘I wish to go tomorrow morning.’
‘Very well…’ Debendranath sighed but his face twisted in a smile. This was one of Sarada’s periodic bursts of rebellion. Nothing more than that. She had accepted the tenets of his new religion but, in her heart, she still yearned for the old. Its rituals warmed and comforted her. If a dip in that polluted stream made her feel better, so be it. This was as far as she could go. She had neither the strength of character nor the tenacity to oppose him in any serious way. She was no Jogmaya.
The following day, the second daughter-in-law of the house came out of the abarodh, in broad daylight, and walked through the baar mahal to the porch where the family phaeton was waiting. She was dressed in strange, alien garments and there were shoes on her feet. Though her head was covered, her face was bare. Stepping into the carriage, she took her place beside her husband. The coachman cracked his whip and the pawing horses leaped eagerly forward. The carriage clattered down the drive and out of the gates.
A few minutes later, a palki followed. It wended its way through a maze of narrow lanes and alleys to the Ganga, the durwan who accompanied the bearers waving his brass-headed stick and calling out ‘Stand aside!’ and ‘Make way!’ to the pedestrians. Reaching the river, the bearers waded right into it. When the water reached their shoulders they immersed the palki, with their mistress in it, and brought it up seven times. Seven times the holy water gushed in through the open windows and bathed Sarada from head to foot. She sat very still, eyes closed, hands folded. Warm tears, trickling down her cheeks, mingled with the cool water as she murmured the Ganga stotra her grandfather had taught her as a child: Devi Sureshwari Bhagawati Gange / Tribhuvana tarini tarala tarange.
II
Jyotirindranath, whose position as fifth son of the family had bestowed upon him the designation Natun – he was Natun babu to the servants and Natun dada to his younger brothers and sisters – had imbibed and amalgamated within him the finest qualities of each one of his ancestors. He had inherited his father’s splendid physique, his mother’s conch-white complexion and the perfectly chiselled features of his grandmother Digambari. To add to these, he had the devil’s own charm. He was so handsome and debonair, in his finely puckered dhutis and satin vests, that the students of Presidency College, where he was doing his FA, lurked at the gate to see him step in and out of his carriage. ‘Jyoti babu! Jyoti Babu!’ he heard the whispers and his mouth curled in amusement. Mercifully, they were all boys, else who knew what devastation would be unleashed and how many hearts broken!
As for his talents, they were as vast and varied as those of his grandfather Dwarkanath. He had a good singing voice and played the violin and piano. He was also a born painter. While still in school he had done a pencil sketch of his class teacher Joygopal Seth which was so comic yet so apt that all the masters had applauded it. The headmaster had advised his father to send him to the art school in Bowbazar. Debendranath had done so and Jyot
i had taken lessons, for some years, along with his cousin Gunendranath. The two young men were also good friends and shared a passion for the theatre. Forming a dramatic club – the Jorasanko Natyashala – they began putting up stage shows in the Thakur dalan of Baithak Khana Bari. Jyoti was a budding playwright and had written several comedies and satires, which were performed along with the works of other, better-known dramatists of the time. In this they were actively helped and encouraged by Gunendra’s elder brother Ganendra. This year they were busy rehearsing Naba Natak by Ramnarayan Tarkaratna. The sets were being designed by Gunendra and the parts, male and female, would be played by the boys of the family. It was thus that the tradition of home theatricals, which became such a distinguishing mark of the Tagores, had its genesis.
Yet, despite all his new interests, Jyoti hadn’t forgotten his childhood playmate – his mejo bouthan. During the two and a half years of her absence from Jorasanko they had corresponded regularly and shared all their thoughts. But he missed her presence in the house acutely. And he missed her companionship. No other woman of his acquaintance had her high spirits and her capacity for enjoyment. He longed for her and couldn’t wait for her to return. Now, after all this time, it seemed as though his wishes were about to be fulfilled. Satyendra had got his home leave and they were coming to attend Birendra’s wedding.
When the carriage stopped at the entrance and she stepped out of it, a gasp of awe and wonder rose from those who had come out to receive her. She had left the house a frail, peaky figure swathed in garments too large for her, much like a little girl parading in her mother’s clothes, and returned a vision of loveliness. Tall and slim – a poem could be written on her slimness, it was so exquisitely proportioned – she was no longer the ‘little Genu’ who had giggled and played pranks and been scolded and punished. She was the assistant collector’s lady; the stately and graceful Mrs Jnanadanandini Tagore. She wore her sari, a dove-coloured silk with an embroidered border, differently now. Half of it was pleated at the waist and the rest brought up over her hips and breasts, then pinned on the left shoulder with a brooch. Her neck, a smooth gleaming column, rose above the lace collar of her black velvet jacket. The edge of her sari covered her head but her face was bare. A face, not conventionally beautiful, but with neat symmetrical lines of brow and jaw, an aquiline nose and a small compact mouth. But the most arresting feature of her face were her eyes. Large and beautifully shaped with bristly black lashes, they were a startling colour against the pale almond-brown of her skin. Smoke-grey with silver flecks. Jyotirindra stared intently at her and thought. ‘Why did I never notice the colour of her eyes?’
‘Why are you staring at me, Natun?’ Sarada had taught her to call him ‘Natun Thakurpo’ but she had shortened it to Natun.
‘You look different! Beautiful… I was wondering why I never noticed the colour of your eyes.’
Jnanadanandini’s mouth lifted in the sweet, familiar, one-sided smile. ‘Perhaps because I used to keep them hidden under the ghumta.’
‘Y-yes…’ Jyoti nodded then said eagerly, ‘I’d like to paint you. Against a brooding monsoon sky. I’ll call it Portrait of a Lady with Grey Eyes. Will you sit for me?’
‘Of course.’
Jyoti noticed that she didn’t add ‘If Ma lets me’, or ‘I’ll have to ask Ma’, as she was wont to do. Her lips kept smiling and her eyes held his with a strange, enigmatic gaze.
The first thing Jnanadanandini did on entering the abarodh was to pay her respects to her mother-in-law. Sarada looked her up and down as she bent to touch her feet. ‘You’ve grown taller,’ she said, ‘and fairer. In fact you look quite beautiful.’ Two years ago, Jnanada would have given her eyes to hear her mother-inlaw speak these words. Today they did not touch her. ‘It must be the climate,’ Sarada muttered. ‘Must be dry and healthy.’
‘It is.’ Jnanada nodded.
Sarada longed to point out that the way she was dressed was unsuitable for a daughter-in-law of the Tagore family but, for some reason, lacked the motivation. Perhaps the transformation was so total that she didn’t know where to begin and where to end. However, there was one point which she felt it was her duty to bring to her daughter-in-law’s attention. ‘You’re not wearing your nose hoop,’ she said accusingly.
Jnanada touched her right nostril where, till a year and a half ago, a huge, ugly circlet of gold had hung, half hiding her cheek and, now, a tiny diamond winked and trembled. ‘It was too big,’ she answered evenly. ‘Your son didn’t like it.’
‘So you changed it for a nose pin. Don’t you know only prostitutes wear nose pins?’
‘No. I didn’t know that.’ Jnanada raised her eyes fearlessly to her mother-in-law’s. ‘Gujarati women from the best families wear them.’
‘We’re Bengalis,’ Sarada said forcefully. ‘And we don’t live in Gujarat.’
‘I do.’
Sarada stared at this new woman standing before her. She had no words left.
That afternoon, all the women of the house crowded into Jnanada’s room watching her unpack. She had brought a trunk full of presents and they fell over one another trying to see what she was giving whom. During the years that Satyendra was away, his allowance of eight rupees a month had come to his wife. She had saved most of it, thus hoarding a tidy sum which she had spent in buying gifts for the family. For each of her sisters-in-law she had bought a gara, the traditional sari worn by Parsee women. Exquisitely embroidered on thick Chinese silk and French crepe, garas cost a fortune. But Jnanada loved buying pretty things and didn’t believe in stinting. She had also bought lengths of satin and velvet for jackets, yards and yards of lace and a stack of cards studded with English buttons. There was an assortment of quilted jackets and embroidered caps for the men and boys and tiny mirror-work skirts, blouses and veils for the little girls.
When all the presents had been distributed and changed and exchanged to everyone’s satisfaction, Jnanada’s sisters-inlaw demanded a demonstration of the new style in which she had draped her sari.
‘Who taught you to wear it this way?’ Neepmayi asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
‘On our way we spent a couple of weeks in Bombay,’ Jnanada replied. ‘We lived with a Parsee gentleman called Manekji Khorshedji in a quaint old house by the sea. He had two daughters, beautiful girls called Aimai and Shireen bai, who became my very good friends. They wore garas, the saris I’ve brought for you, and they wore them this way except that they brought the anchal over the right shoulder and tucked one end of it into the waist so that the chest was covered. It looked nice, the work on the anchal was more visible, but I was so used to throwing my anchal over my left shoulder that I decided to do just that.’
‘What happened to all the new dresses you took from here? Didn’t you wear them?’ Sukumari asked.
‘I did. For some time. But they were horrid. They took ages to wear and were terribly uncomfortable. One day I got so fed up I decided to throw them away and drape my old saris in the Parsee style instead. I thought your brother would be angry. But he quite liked my new look.’
‘Show us how you do it.’
Jnanada was only too ready to oblige. Though she had assumed an air of dignity and restraint, her old fun-loving self came to the surface from time to time. Jumping up, she yanked off her sari and stood, tall and straight, in her jacket and a long white garment which fell from her shoulders to her ankles.
‘What’s that under your jacket?’
‘It’s called a chemise. See, I have a sash tied around my middle. No need now for knots which may come undone and embarrass me. One end of the sari is tucked into the sash, so, and the rest is brought around from the back. Then, half of it is pleated in the centre, like this, and tucked into the waist. The rest is brought around again, neatly folded, so, and pinned on the left shoulder. Voila!’
‘What’s that you said?’ Sukumari exclaimed.
‘The rest is brought around again, neatly folded—’
‘No, no, right at t
he end, v-voi…’
‘Oh that! I said, “Voila!” It’s French. It means “done”!’
Satyendra had employed a lady to teach Jnanada English and French. Though her stock of French words was pitifully small, she couldn’t resist showing off whatever little she knew.
The afternoon was a great success. Next day the women of Baithak Khana Bari came bursting in, demanding a demo. Satyendra heard about it from Sukumari and an idea came to his head. ‘When I was in England,’ he told his wife that night, ‘I noticed that the women, while being decently covered, were totally free in their movements. So unlike ours who seem hampered all the time. Monomohan and I used to talk about it and wish we could give our women a different kind of dress. The result was that, on his return, he persuaded his wife to wear gowns instead of saris. But, somehow, I don’t feel that’s quite right. Do we need to borrow everything from the West? Do we have nothing of our own? I’ve a feeling you’ve hit upon the right combination. The traditional sari and a modern, civilized way of wearing it. More women should adopt it.’
‘But how?’
‘I have a suggestion. How would it be if I put in an advertisement?’
‘An advertisement!’ Jnanada’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘Saying what?’
‘Saying that Srimati Jnanadanandini Devi of Number 6 Dwarkanath Tagore Street has evolved a new style of draping a sari. Ladies interested in seeing a demonstration may come to the above address at any time between four o’clock and six o’clock on weekdays.’
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