Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  Debendranath had gone along with them for a while. Conscious of the Pirali taint in his blood, he had refrained from sitting on the dais at Brahmo Sabha meetings, all these years, for only Kulin Brahmins were sanctioned, by tradition, to do so. But Keshab had urged him to break this tradition. ‘You are higher in our eyes than the highest of Kulins!’ he had said. ‘You are a Maharshi! What are these puja-peddling Brahmins before you?’ Debendranath had been flattered, especially at the title of Maharshi, which had stuck to his name, and had obeyed. But he felt uncomfortable. He feared the retaliation of the Hindus and it came soon enough. Aggression and violence against Brahmos took the place of taunts and insults.

  As the years went by, Keshab became more and more demanding. He was an avid reader of the Bible and wanted the Brahmo dharma to be modelled on Christianity. But Debendranath, though he was open to all religions, saw no need for that. He had envisioned the new faith as a form of Hinduism. A new, renovated form, in which only the true spirit was retained and the peripherals discarded. The very basis of Hindu philosophy, as Debendranath saw it, rested on the doctrine of monotheism – not the worship of idols. Therefore, there was no need to break totally away from time-honoured Hindu traditions. But the young Brahmos, led by Keshab, did not share his opinion. Their first target of attack was the sacred thread which Brahmins of the old school wore even after their initiation into the Brahmo faith. If Brahmos rejected the caste system, they argued, why should they carry its symbol? Those who do so are not true Brahmos. Debendra humoured them by casting off his own thread but he was reluctant to force others to do so. He was in favour of change but Keshab wanted revolution. The latter was organizing inter-caste marriages and widow remarriages in large numbers. Debendranath, unwilling to strike a dissenting note, did not interfere but, deep within, he found both distasteful.

  Matters came to a head when Keshab and his friends arrived at a meeting to find the elderly Brahmin Ayodhyanath Pakrasi conducting it. They raised a tremendous din demanding that he, being one of those who had refused to cast off his sacred thread, be asked to step down. Debendranath was shocked by such unruly behaviour. His face flamed with anger but he controlled himself and appealed to the young men to calm down and allow Ayodhyanath to continue. But his words fell on deaf ears. The commotion increased with a Babel of voices demanding Ayodhyanath’s expulsion. Debendranath bore it for as long as he could, trusting that good sense would prevail eventually, but after he heard phrases like ‘old fossil’ and ‘Who does Deben Thakur think he is? The Pope?’ his jaw hardened.

  ‘I shall not ask Pakrasimoshai to step down,’ his voice boomed above the others and a shocked silence descended on the room. ‘Whoever disagrees with my decision is welcome to leave.’

  Keshab and his followers stormed out of the room and held their own sabha at a separate venue. They had looked upon their behaviour as an expression of protest, nothing more than that, but Debendranath had had enough. Next day he held a meeting in which, coldly and methodically, he removed the names of Keshab and his followers from the Board of Trustees. Keshab was appalled. How could Maharshi do such a thing? Was the Brahmo Samaj his personal fiefdom? And what about the finances? If the Samaj was to be split, shouldn’t the funds be divided equally? His group raised a hue and cry, raved and ranted, but that was all they could do. Debendranath was unfazed. He went about his work in dignified silence, impervious to everything that was being said about him.

  With Keshab setting up of a new branch, the Naba Bidhan, Debendranath’s Samaj acquired an appellation. It came to be known as the Adi or original, Brahmo Samaj. And this was its first Maghotsav…

  The sweet plaintive strains of shehnai, heralding a new dawn, reached the ears of the members of the Adi Brahmo Samaj as soon as they entered Dwarkanath Tagore Street. Then, when the mansion came in sight, a gasp of joy went up from hundreds of throats. Garlands of kunda and champa were wound around the pillars and strings of ashoka leaves were looped across doors and windows and along the cornices. The driveway, from the gate onwards, was covered with alpana. Long tables, set with pyramids of sweets and oranges, stood along the verandas for the fasting congregation. A chorus of voices rose in the air, rendering songs composed by Satyendranath, Sabé milé milé gao and Aaj anander diney. Another great favourite was a composition by Neepmayi and Prafullamayi’s father, Haradev Chattopadhyay, Brahmo dharmer danka baajilo. Later, the whole family, along with their guests, spent the day in their garden estate of Palta where khichuri and mutton curry were cooked and eaten under the trees.

  Soudamini had noticed that Jnanada was talking less and looking somewhat preoccupied towards the latter part of the day. She had asked her, several times, if there was anything wrong but the younger girl had insisted that she was fine. But now, as Jnanada walked down the gallery towards her apartment, she stopped suddenly and stood still. Her eyes clouded and she swayed this way and that. Then, before anyone could reach her, she clutched her stomach and fell to the floor in a dead faint. Her sisters-in-law rushed to her, horrified. It was Soudamini who saw it first. The stream of blood flowing out of Jnanada and forming a bizarre pattern on the black and white marble.

  That night, through a haze of shock and pain, Jnanada heard her mother-in-law saying to the midwife in a low, hissing voice, ‘What else can you expect from a girl like her? Does she obey any rules? Or listen to her elders? Can a woman behave like a man and get away with it? To think that it could have been a boy! My Sotu’s firstborn! My grandson!’

  ‘These things happen, Ma,’ the midwife, who had catered to the needs of the household from the time Sarada was a young bride, murmured. ‘It’s not her fault.’

  ‘Of course it’s her fault! You don’t know how she’s been running around from the time she came. First there was the play. Leave the boys to their own amusements, I say. What do you, a daughter-in-law of the house, have to do with them? But no. She has to attend all the rehearsals. She has to help out with the decorations and costumes. Then, as if that and the harvest festival next door hadn’t afforded her sufficient enjoyment, she insisted on going to the governor’s party. That too without Sotu. I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. My khurosasur from Pathuriaghata saw her there and was so embarrassed that he left without even telling his host. But she? She has no shame. Two days later she was romping about in Palta. And look what happened! Really! I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a daughter-in-law.’

  Jnanada felt hot tears scalding her cold cheeks. For the first time in her adult life, she had heard her mother-in-law malign her for no reason and couldn’t answer back. Her voice, like the rest of her, was frozen…

  Three weeks later, when Satyendra’s leave ended and Jnanada and he were preparing to go back, Jyoti came with a strange request. He wanted to go with them. ‘How can you go?’ Satyendra was shocked. ‘Your FA examinations are just around the corner. You can come to us after they are over.’

  Jyoti shot a glance at a pale but pretty Jnanada, who sat on the bed sorting through a pile of clothes and said, ‘I can take the exam next year. What difference will one year make?’

  ‘A lot,’ Satyendra said severely. ‘Babamoshai has set his heart on sending you to England. He wishes you to take the ICS examination. You should be spending all your time and energy in studying and getting through the exam with flying colours. There’s no question of wasting a whole year. What do you think?’ He turned to his wife for support.

  But Jnanada, to his surprise, answered in a cold indifferent voice. ‘I think he is old enough to take his own decisions. Who are we to dictate to him?’ Her cheeks were flushed and she avoided her husband’s eyes. Instead she looked full into Jyoti’s. There was something in them that sent a tremor through her. A tremor of exultation mixed with a clammy fear. ‘What am I doing?’ she thought slowly. ‘And where will it lead?’ She was hitting back at her mother-in-law. But at whose cost? Natun’s? Her bright, beautiful Natun? Why? Because she had him in her power? Cold fingers clutched at her heart as sh
e muttered, ‘I’m selfish… selfish to the core.’

  ‘Did you say something?’ Satyendra, who had been looking at her with a puzzled expression, asked anxiously.

  But Jnanada had cast her die and couldn’t retrieve it. Raising her head proudly, she said, ‘Think of yourself when you were eighteen. Didn’t you take your own decisions?’

  That night, Satyendra went to Sarada’s room and said. ‘It’s time we found a wife for Jyoti. He’s eighteen and…’

  ‘Your Babamoshai has done that already. The wedding will take place in July next year. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No. Who is the girl?’

  ‘Her name is Kadambari. She’s Shyam Ganguly’s third daughter.’

  ‘Shyam Ganguly? Of Harh Katar Gali?’

  ‘Hunh.’

  Satyendra couldn’t believe his ears. ‘A daughter of Shyam Ganguly of Harh Katar Gali!’ he repeated. ‘For Jyoti?’ Burying his head in his hands he cried, ‘Oh! no!’

  Shyamlal Ganguly was a distant relative of the Tagores – linked, not by blood but by marriage. His grandaunt Rampriya Devi was the widow of Dwarkanath’s granduncle Gobindaram. Being childless, Rampriya had taken her brother’s son Jaganmohan under her wing, brought him up and even had a house built for him in the Harh Katar Gali area of Kolkata. It was also through her efforts that he had found a wife in Dwarkanath’s maternal cousin Shiromoni. Shyam Ganguly was Jaganmohan and Shiromoni’s fourth son.

  The Gangulys, though kin, did not live in Jorasanko as did so many others. Shyamlal stayed with his family in their ancestral house in Harh Katar Gali but looked to his wealthy relatives for subsistence. He did odd jobs for Debendranath and, over the years, turned himself into a petty contractor and purchasing clerk for the household. The fact that his reputation for honesty and integrity wasn’t exactly impeccable was one of the reasons for Satyendra’s reaction. His crude, unsophisticated style of speech and manners, and his presumptuous over-familiarity with the master of the house was another.

  Shyamlal Ganguly had already married off two daughters when Debendranath broached the subject of an alliance for Jyotirindra.

  ‘The prettiest of my girls are married already,’ Shyamlal said with an impudent grin. ‘The two that are left are dark – like their mother.’

  Debendranath frowned. ‘I’m not overly concerned with the girl’s beauty,’ he said. ‘It’s her character that is more important. I’m looking for a quiet, docile girl who will adapt herself to the family and obey its rules. How old is your third daughter?’

  ‘She’s seven and a half,’ Shyamlal said. ‘As for her nature, you need have no fears. My Kadambari is the gentlest and most submissive girl anyone has seen. Ever ready to do her duty and serve those around her.’

  Debendranath nodded. He wanted a girl as different from his second daughter-in-law as possible. ‘Has she received any education?’ he asked.

  ‘Un hunh…’ Shyamlal’s mouth twisted in another impudent grin. ‘I live from hand to mouth,’ he said airily. ‘I can’t find the means to educate my sons, leave alone my daughters.’

  ‘That can be easily remedied,’ Debendranath said. ‘Arrange a tutor for her at once. Pay him extra so that he spends more time on her. She must have a good grounding in Bengali and Sanskrit before she comes to my house. And, of course, she must be able to do simple sums. After the wedding – I’d like to have it sometime next year – it will be Jyoti’s responsibility to advance her education further. Don’t worry about the expense. Take what you need from the cashier. Another thing…’ Debendranath’s eyebrows came together in a frown. ‘While I don’t expect ostentatious wedding celebrations, you must be careful not to offend anyone from the bridegroom’s party. Jyoti has many friends and our relatives from all over Kolkata will attend. They must be looked after with due regard to their dignity and status. Do not fail me. And again, don’t worry about the expense. Just bill everything to the exchequer.’

  1868–1873

  I

  Two little girls sat playing with their dolls in an upstairs veranda of the Jorasanko mansion. They were chewing paan and their legs were stretched out on the mat in the manner of the matrons they were imitating. Scattered around them lay a dozen dolls and a whole range of household articles – all in miniature. Barnakumari was eleven and a daughter of the house. Nine-year-old Kadambari was a daughter-in-law. She was a slim, dark girl, tall for her age. Her face was a longish oval and her nose somewhat heavy with her eyebrows meeting at the arch. But she had a wide generous mouth and wonderful eyes. Large and dark with a deep fringe of lashes, they seemed to hold, even at her tender age, infinite depths and mysteries. She was shy and reserved – the exact opposite of the bossy and boisterous Barna who looked exactly like her mother and copied all her mannerisms.

  Barna picked up a tiny spittoon. She possessed everything from a husking pedal to a fully equipped paan box, for didn’t she run a household, too, exactly like that of her mother? Though minuscule, it contained all the elements of wealthy upper-class living. And no one, not even her sternest critic, could fault her or say that she was careless or neglectful of her duties. It was Barna’s pride that her meals were cooked on time, her children were cared for and her household run on oiled wheels.

  Picchu! Barna spat a stream of betel juice into her toy spittoon, then lifting a corner of her kotki sari she touched it to the ends of her mouth exactly as Sarada was wont to do. ‘It’s time we set the date, Natun Bouthan,’ she said. ‘If we wait too long, Poush will creep up on us, before we know it, and the wedding will get delayed by a whole month. It will also get too cold. What do you say?’

  ‘Y-yes…’ Kadambari hesitated. Though she played with this sister-in-law of hers, she stood just a little in awe of her. Barna was not only two years older, she was also the pampered youngest daughter of the house. What was more, she was still unmarried and enjoyed a lot more freedom than Kadambari. Barna’s courage and confidence left the younger girl gaping with wonder.

  ‘Shall I send for the purohit then?’ Barna’s voice held a trace of impatience. ‘He’ll take some time to consult his almanac and come up with a suitable date.’

  Still Kadambari hesitated. ‘Y-yes,’ she said, raising huge plaintive eyes to her sister-in-law’s. ‘But… but do you have to take my Kusum Kumari? I could give you my Indubala or Sarojini.’ She clasped her favourite doll to her breast and continued, ‘You see… my Kusum has never lived away from me. She’ll be desperately homesick.’

  Barna pursed her mouth and said in her mother’s voice, ‘You astonish me, Natun Bouthan! Girls can’t live with their mothers forever. They have to be married and there’s a time for it. Do you want your daughter to end up as an old maid because you can’t bear to be parted from her? Think of your ancestors! They’ll burn in hell if a daughter of their line remains unwed. Yes…’ She pressed her point more forcefully, ‘All fourteen generations of them. How can you be so selfish?’

  Kadambari’s face turned pale and she shrank behind her veil. ‘No… no… I didn’t mean. I only meant… I thought if I could keep her with me for another year… or even six months. Any of the others…’

  ‘Nonsense. Kusum’s the eldest of your daughters and she should marry first. She’s also the prettiest and that’s why I chose her for my Deb Kumar. You agreed to it. The matter was settled long ago. You can’t go back on your word.’

  Kadambari was silent. Her head sank and big tears rolled from her eyes and fell on the doll she was clutching to her breast.

  ‘All mothers feel sad in the beginning,’ Barna comforted her with all the wisdom of her eleven years. ‘But they get over it. Think of the grand wedding your Kusum Kumari will have! The clothes and jewellery she’ll get! The fun, feasting and lights! Not to speak of a handsome husband like my Deb Kumar.’

  Still the tears kept falling and intermittent sobs rose from Kadambari’s thin chest.

  ‘Don’t take it so hard, Natun Bouthan.’ Barna, somewhat alarmed at this excessive maternal grief, softened her
tone. ‘Your Kusum won’t go far away. She’ll stay in this house. And I won’t be a cruel mother-in-law. I can promise you that. Of course, your daughter must be good and obedient. She must work hard and serve the family.’ Then, bringing her mouth to Kadambari’s ear, she giggled and whispered, ‘And she must give me plenty of grandsons. What’s the use of her being so beautiful if she can’t bear sons?’

  Kadambari wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand and asked, ‘Can she live with me, in my doll’s house, after the wedding? For a few months at least?’ Her voice was pleading and her eyes anxious.

  ‘What a question!’ Barna dismissed the foolish sentiments of the bride’s mother. ‘All married girls live with their husbands and in-laws. Didn’t you leave Harh Katar Gali and come to Jorasanko? Dear me! Here I am sitting wasting my time when there’s so much work to be done.’ She rose to her feet and bustled out of the veranda, calling over her shoulder, ‘Don’t keep sitting there like a statue, Natun Bouthan. Start getting the dowry together. There really isn’t much time. As for me, I’d better send for the purohit at once and set the date.’

  Kadambari sat where she was, staring at the sky. It was a clear blue with floating cotton candy clouds. There had been just such a sky the day she stepped out of her father’s house and entered the palki with the Tagore crest. At the threshold, someone had put a thala in her hands. It had some rice and coins in it. ‘Throw the contents into your mother’s anchal,’ the woman had said, ‘and say “I pay back everything I owe you”.’ Kadambari had turned to look at her mother. The long dark face, with its deep melancholy eyes, was stark and emotionless as though carved out of stone. She was holding out her anchal. That face had stayed with the girl ever since…