‘Jah! You can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s ridiculous. Everyone will laugh.’
‘I don’t think so. Wait and watch.’
‘No, no… please,’ Jnanada begged but Satyendra went ahead and put in the advertisement.
The response was overwhelming and left Jnanada open-mouthed with wonder. Carriage after carriage came rolling up the driveway and women poured out of them, women from the best families of Kolkata, Brahmo as well as Hindu. A group of ladies arrived even from the conservative stronghold of Pathuriaghata. Word spread. The fashion that Jnanada had spearheaded began gaining momentum. Women were learning from one another, imitating one another. As time went by, more and more women could be seen sporting the new look at weddings and festivals. It also got a name. Pirili. The ‘Pirili’ style of draping a sari gradually transformed the look of the female population of Kolkata. The ones who took to it most aggressively came from Brahmo families and, over the years, a Brahmika came to be recognized, instantly, by her lace-collared jacket, her shoes and stockings, and the way she wore her sari. Conservative Hindus viewed this new fashion with dismay. In their opinion it broke centuries of tradition and played havoc with the time-tested rules of the abarodh.
Birendra got married and brought home his bride. Prafullamayi had grown into a radiant beauty and looked much older than her eight years. The women of the house exclaimed over her looks, especially Sarada who couldn’t take her eyes off her. She was constantly drawing her into her lap, telling her how pretty she was and kissing and petting her. She sent for her every time she had a meal and fed her the choicest titbits from her thala. And, every evening, she supervised the new bride’s make-up and toilette herself. She made Soudamini braid her hair in plaits of five or seven strands, then put them up in an elaborate coiffure. Sarada fixed the hair ornaments, the gold comb and pins, with her own hands and covered her with jewels from her own box.
As if in a reprimand to Jnanada for her rebellious act of discarding her nose hoop, Sarada took out her own bridal hoop hung with pearls and rubies. But fitting it on Prafulla’s nostril was a struggle. The hole was too small and the stem of the hoop too thick. It took a long time and was so painful that tears gushed out of the little bride’s eyes. But her vanity and the desire to remain in her mother-in-law’s good books were stronger than her pain and she didn’t make a sound. Finally, the hoop was fitted but her nostril started to bleed.
Soudamini, who had been persuading her mother all this while to give up the attempt, said sharply, ‘Leave it, Ma. Can’t you see you’re hurting the poor girl? She can wear it later when she is older.’
‘I wore it from the time I was six,’ Sarada replied. ‘My nose hurt, too, in the beginning but I soon got used to it. A dab of lime and turmeric will seal the wound.’
But Soudamini wouldn’t listen. She took off the nose hoop and released Prafulla from her agony.
As a result of this excessive pampering by her mother-in-law, Prafullamayi started putting on airs and behaving in a manner not quite in keeping with her age and her status as a new bride. When Jnanada called her to her room and gave her the gara she had kept aside for her, she pointed to the black crepe Jnanada had kept for herself to wear at the reception in the grounds of Government House to which Satyendra had been invited by the governor, Lord Lawrence. ‘I like that one better,’ she said.
‘You can’t wear black,’ Jnanada exclaimed. ‘You’re a new bride and—’
‘I know that,’ Prafulla said cockily. ‘That’s why most of my saris are red. I’m tired of wearing red.’
‘But this isn’t red. It’s pink. Dark pink.’
‘It looks red. Anyway, I like the black one.’ And she put out her hand and took it as if it was her right.
‘Ma will never forgive me if I give you a black sari,’ Jnanada said. ‘In any case, she won’t let you wear it. Not for another year at least.’
‘She will when I tell her my heart is set on it. Leave Ma to me.’
Jnanada felt her temper rising but controlled it. ‘You’re so young.’ She smiled at her sister-in-law. ‘And so pretty. Why do you want to wear a dull black sari?’
Now Prafulla’s face turned red and angry. ‘You want to keep it for yourself, don’t you?’ she snapped. ‘Why don’t you say so straight out?’
Jnanada was appalled. She had never dared to speak to an older sister-in-law in that tone of voice. Neither had any of the other wives.
‘I’ve been told you are selfish,’ Prafulla continued, ‘but I didn’t realize you’re s-o-o selfish. After all, there are plenty of black saris like this one where you come from. You can easily buy yourself another. But you…’
Jnanada felt the blood rushing to her head. She had quite a temper of her own and didn’t brook any nonsense from anyone, not even her husband. She felt like putting out her hand and slapping the smooth, dimpled cheek that was so temptingly close. Though she curbed the impulse, there was no question of letting Prafulla have her way. Jnanada plucked the black gara from her hand and said, ‘I shall take them both to Ma and ask her to choose.’ And, before Prafulla could stop her, she swept away from the room.
Sarada glanced at the two saris lying on her bed and said coldly, ‘The pink one of course. How could you even think of giving black to a newlywed?’
‘I couldn’t decide,’ Jnanada answered, feigning meekness, ‘I thought I would take your advice.’ Then, picking up the black gara before Sarada could change her mind, she left the room saying, ‘This one would have looked very nice on her too. She’s so fair. But you’re right. The pink is more suitable. Please give it to her yourself, Ma, and tell her it’s your choice.’
Jnanada walked out of the door, her head held high. She had won this battle but her triumph brought her no joy. She realized, from what Prafulla had said, that a faction within the family was working against her. Some of the women, while smiling ingratiatingly in her presence, were conspiring behind her back. She didn’t know who they were. But of one thing she was certain. The campaign was being spearheaded by her mother-in-law. The thought made Jnanada’s heart turn numb and heavy. She looked around and felt as bereft as she had felt the day she saw Sukumari being decked out in the jewels her father had given her.
Every year, on the last day of Poush, the harvest festival of Makar Sankranti was celebrated, next door, in Baithak Khana Bari. There was an unwritten code with regard to celebrations which both branches of the family followed. The inmates of No. 5 did not participate in Maghotsav or any other Brahmo festival held in the ancestral house. Likewise, the Brahmo branch avoided events that involved the worship of idols. They made an exception for weddings and thread ceremonies, deeming them to be family celebrations. But an unfortunate incident at an event in No. 5 changed the course of things. Some female guests rose from the eating row and left because there were Brahmo women sitting next to them. Jogmaya and Tripura, red-faced with embarrassment, touched Sarada’s feet and apologized profusely. Sarada assured them that she held nothing against them but lines were drawn from that day onwards. The family of No. 6 attended only those functions in which outsiders were not invited. The harvest festival was one of them.
Gunendra had been married a couple of years ago and his wife Soudamini and the other Soudamini, Sarada’s daughter, had become the best of friends. The fact that they had the same name created a special bond between them – a bond they had strengthened by calling each other ‘Soi’. That afternoon, the women of No. 6 arrived in Baithak Khana Bari to find a flushed and tearful Soudamini sitting before a row of flaring clay ovens, getting ready to perform the bauri bandha, the ritual that preceded the preparing of the traditional sweets and snacks that marked the festival of Makar Sankranti. The honour of performing the bauri bandha had fallen on Soudamini, her elder sister-in-law being confined to bed with a bout of vomiting. But, being young and inexperienced, she dreaded the responsibility and looked up eagerly as the group from next door made their appearance. ‘Soi
lo!’ she called out gratefully. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come!’ Glancing fearfully at the mountains of rice paste and scraped coconut and tall pitchers full of milk and molasses with which she was surrounded she continued, ‘I don’t know where to begin and where to end.’
Soudamini laughed. She was some years older than her soi and several times more efficient and organized. ‘We’ll think of the end later,’ she said. ‘Let’s begin at the beginning with the bauri bandha.’ Gunendra’s wife needn’t have been so fearful. Tripura Sundari joined them in a while. Being a widow she wouldn’t do the bauri bandha but she gave instructions and, under her experienced eye, the ritual was performed to perfection. The back of a clay saucer was smeared with rice paste and placed on the fire to the accompaniment of chants to Tushu, the patron deity of tush or husk which protects the precious grain during the period of ripening and is, thus, the recipient of the household’s gratitude. As the rice paste baked and hardened, the women sang the traditional songs of joy and thanksgiving for a bountiful harvest. For, the bauri bandha symbolized the binding of the grain to the household. It was now not only safely lodged in their paddy bins but bound to their kitchen pot and couldn’t escape.
When the bauri bandha was successfully accomplished and the clay pot carefully stowed away in the loft, the peethe puli, an array of sweets shaped in circles, half circles, ovals and crescents, were prepared with the newly harvested rice and coconuts and the molasses from the sap that date palms yield only in winter. All the women, including the maids, were roped in to help and, slowly, the mounds and pyramids of raw materials diminished and were transformed into delicious sweets and snacks. It was late at night by the time the cooking, serving, chatting and eating were done and the women of No. 6 made their way to their own house followed by maids carrying trays and basins full of leftovers.
Satyendra caught a bad chill that night and developed a fever which refused to leave him despite all the bitter pills and potions given him by the physician. He also suffered from rheumatism which was getting worse as he grew older. On the morning of the governor’s reception, he said to Jnanada, ‘I don’t think I can attend the garden party. I’m still running a fever and my back is killing me. But you must go. I’ll send a message to Mrs Phaer and ask her to take you with her.’ Mr and Mrs Phaer were friends of Satyendranath and they, too, had received an invitation.
But the proposal left Jnanada aghast. ‘By no means,’ she exclaimed, ‘I’m not going without you.’
‘Why not? Mrs Phaer will be there and—’
‘No… no. Why should I go if you aren’t? Please don’t make me.’
Satyendra sat her down and explained, at great length, the importance the governor’s invitation held for a young officer like himself and how unforgivably rude it would be if both of them stayed away. She had to be brave. She had to go and convey his apologies to His Excellency. Wasn’t she the wife of India’s first ICS officer? And, as such, didn’t she have duties to perform? He hadn’t a doubt she would perform this one well. He had full confidence in her.
That afternoon, Soudamini walked into Jnanada’s room to see her sitting on the bed with a morose expression on her face. ‘Have you decided what you’ll wear?’ she asked, smiling, then added, ‘Why do you look like a lamb being led to the slaughter? Cheer up. Show me what you are wearing.’ Jnanada went to the cupboard and brought out the black gara and a cloth of gold jacket with deep frills of black lace at the throat and wrists.
‘A good choice,’ Soudamini said. ‘See how the gold of the jacket brings out the autumn colours – the brown, ochre and rust – of the border! What about jewels?’
‘I’ll wear the diamond collar Babamoshai gave me.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing. I don’t have anything else.’
A shadow passed over Soudamini’s face. It flickered for an instant then was gone. ‘Nonsense,’ she said stoutly, ‘you must wear more than that. Don’t forget you’re a grand daughter-in-law of Prince Dwarkanath Tagore.’ Soudamini brought out the casket she was hiding under her sari and opened it. It was her jewel box and contained some priceless pieces. ‘Come, Mejo Bouthan,’ she said. ‘Let me do your hair and dress you up. You must look your prettiest for Mejo Dada’s sake.’
Jnanada had very long black hair which she usually wore swept up in a knot at the back of her head. But, today, Soudamini did a lot of things to it. Lighting a dozen sticks of incense, she passed the smoke over each strand. Then she scalloped it with the aid of a damp gamchha, braided it and put it up in an Ajanta-style coiffure which she fixed in place with tiny gold flowers. She fitted diamond bracelets on her wrists and hung long diamond pins in her ears. Finally, after Jnanada’s toilette was complete, she brought out a tiara. It was one of the pieces from Dwarkanath’s collection that had come first to Sarada Sundari, then passed on to her eldest daughter as part of her dowry. But at this point Jnanada rebelled. The magnificent tiara, with its huge emeralds and diamonds, was too expensive and ostentatious, she felt, for the occasion and wouldn’t suit her looks and style.
‘You’re quite wrong,’ Soudamini told her. ‘The memsahebs of Kolkata lather themselves with jewels. You’ll look very plain beside them if you don’t wear something on your head.’ She brought out some other hair ornaments and, after some more persuasion on her part and resistance on her sister-in-law’s, a deal was struck. Jnanada agreed to wear a seenthi. It consisted of a band of delicate gold filigree which covered her parting, then branched out in two separate strands along her hair line. From the centre hung a semicircular pendant with fringes of rubies and pearls. A fan, a lace handkerchief, and a dash of French perfume and Jnanadanandini was ready to go out and conquer the world.
Lord and Lady Lawrence stood at the top of the carpeted steps that led down to the sunken garden where a number of people were already seated at tables spread with the finest linen and lace. Chairs, cushions and hassocks lay scattered about under the trees. Some of the younger guests lay sprawled on the grass or reclined against tree trunks, ogled one another, chatted and flirted. Dozens of native servants, in white gloves, ran back and forth carrying silver trays set with tall glasses of punch, goblets of wine and sherry, and platters full of kebabs. Most of the guests were European but one could see a few natives here and there, all of them men. It was the most pleasant hour of the day. The sun, trapped in a mesh of pink and gold beams, was sinking slowly behind the grove of coconut palms that bordered the estate. There was a mild nip in the warm evening air.
‘Mrs Satyendranath Tagore!’ A booming voice announced. ‘Mr and Mrs Phaer!’ And now Jnanadanandini stood before the governor and his lady. She had been taught to curtsey and she had practised it several times before coming but, in her flustered state, she bent the wrong knee, stumbled and would have fallen if Mrs Phaer hadn’t gripped her arm in time. Her ears blazed with embarrassment. She felt, rather than saw, her hostess’s pale-blue eyes fixed on her in an icy stare. But the governor’s face had a smile and his voice was warm and kind as he said, ‘Your husband couldn’t accompany you, I see.’
Jnanada pulled herself up. She had made one mistake. She wouldn’t make another. ‘He is indisposed, Your Excellency,’ she said slowly, with a marked Bengali accent but in perfect English. ‘He sends you both his regrets.’ She had practised this speech the whole of yesterday and was thrilled to find that she had delivered it without faltering. Suddenly her fears were gone. She flashed a dazzling smile at her host and hostess.
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Lord Lawrence smiled back. ‘I was looking forward to meeting him.’ Two more couples had been announced by this time and he turned to greet them.
From one of the tables a short, thickset man, with a heavy nose ending in a blob, had looked up curiously as Jnanada stepped out of her carriage. He was an elderly Bengali dressed in the brocade robes and turban that natives favoured for ceremonial occasions. His eyes passed appraisingly over the slim figure in black even as several voices buzzed around him. ‘The Rani of
Bhopal! The Rani of Bhopal!’ Then, sudden as a thunderclap, he heard the announcement. ‘Mrs Satyendranath Tagore.’ He couldn’t believe his ears. The woman curtseying to the governor and talking to him was Deba’s daughter-in-law! She had come to the reception, her face bared before the world! What was more, she had come without her husband! She was making her way down the steps now. Another minute and she would see him. He rose to his feet. Ducking his head, he dashed out of the reception grounds and made his way to his carriage. But Jnanada had seen and recognized Satyendra’s granduncle Prasanna Kumar Tagore of Pathuriaghata.
Jnanadanandini came back from the reception tired to the bone. She had been feeling slightly giddy and nauseous all day which she had put down to her fears and anxieties. But that night she felt distinctly unwell. There was a cramp in the small of her back and uncomfortable stirrings in her stomach. But she ignored them. The eleventh of Magh was at hand and she was looking forward to the Maghotsav that would be celebrated in the house. She had heard that this year plans were afoot to commemorate the day with a picnic. If she even breathed a word of her indisposition, her mother-in-law would send for the family physician and have her confined to bed.
Maghotsav began, each year, with a morning upasana in the Brahmo mandir after which the entire assembly made its way to No. 6 Dwarkanath Tagore Street where a whole day of festivities awaited them. Debendranath was looking forward to this year’s Maghotsav as something of a test. Of the strength of his following after the break with Keshab and his group.
With Keshab Sen’s initiation, a new wave had appeared in the quiet waters of the Brahmo Samaj. Keshab and his cronies, a section of young Brahmos, were clamouring for certain changes in the ideology of the Samaj. They held that the Vedas were neither sacred nor inviolable and advocated the dissolution of caste distinctions and the propagation of widow remarriage. They also pressed for aggressive dissemination of the new faith. Debendranath, though agreeing with them in theory, preferred to be conservative in practice. He believed in change but not drastic change. He loved Keshab, had bestowed on him the title of Brahmananda, and looked upon him as his rightful successor. Yet he felt uneasy at times. Keshab was too hasty and impetuous! How could he insist on non-Brahmins preaching from the pulpit of the Brahmo Sabha? And on the initiation of people from all castes and classes? Keshab was a Vaidya and didn’t share Debendranath’s bias towards Brahmins. He desired a universal brotherhood of Brahmos. Debendra had no quarrel with that but he felt that lines had to be drawn, somewhere, and the timing spaced out. But the young group didn’t see eye to eye with him and pushed for immediate and drastic change.
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