Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  Balendranath, born three months after his father’s return, belied his name. He was a frail and sickly child with bowlegs that lay passive and motionless on the kantha. It was doubtful if he would survive beyond the first few weeks. But Prafulla, who had nearly died in giving birth, was determined not to lose him. She watched over him day and night, nursed him at her own breast, and fed him the elixirs and draughts given by the kobiraj with clockwork regularity. It was her will, as Subhankari told everyone, that kept the child alive. With the birth a change came over Prafulla. The fire in her died out and she became quiet and withdrawn. She lost interest in her looks, in clothes and jewels. She seemed to be living only for her son.

  But Birendra’s improvement was short-lived. The paranoia returned and he started becoming violent again. One day he picked up the heavy brass rocker, in which little Bolu had been sleeping only a few minutes earlier, and hurled it from the second floor into the courtyard, muttering curses all the while. Prafulla locked herself in her bedroom with her son, opening the door only after Birendra was safely out of the house and back in Dhulenda Lunatic Asylum.

  III

  At thirteen, Kadambari had grown into a lovely young woman. She was much taller and the sharp angularities of her form had vanished, leaving behind a willowy slenderness with gentle curves of breasts, waist and hips. She moved about the halls and galleries of the house with a poise and dignity unusual in a girl her age. Her long, oval face with its deep expressive eyes had acquired a delicacy so poignant it contained a hint of fragility.

  She had stopped playing with dolls; indeed, she had left her childhood behind her on the day three years ago when Barna, in a fit of pique, had thrown Kusum Kumari from the second-floor gallery to the courtyard below. Kadambari had stared, wordlessly, at the mangled mass with the cracked skull lying on the floor. And a strange feeling, swift and elusive as a snake, had slithered into her heart. ‘I shall die like my Kusum… in this house. My body will be lying there… like hers….’ The thought had vanished as suddenly as it had come. She had continued staring, dry eyed, at the remains of her daughter for a while longer, then walked slowly away.

  Kadambari had turned from child to woman from that day onwards. She had given away whatever remained of her toy household and turned to the real one instead. One by one, she took on many duties. She hovered about Subhankari and the other older women of the house, ready to run errands, fetch and carry, and generally save their heavy bodies and rheumatic feet from painful activity.

  In Jorasanko, as in most other wealthy houses of Kolkata, there were two kinds of work for the women. The first was the daily routine of planning menus, giving instructions to the cooks, cutting the vegetables and fruits, and dressing the paan that would be eaten throughout the day. The last was a cumbersome task, for there were many people in the house with many different tastes. Paan leaves were washed in hundreds, wiped dry, split and spread on clean muslin sheets. The halves were then sprinkled with condiments and twisted into neat cones before being wrapped in damp cloths and packed away in huge brass vessels. At least twenty varieties were prepared every day. The simplest, which the servants ate, were merely coarse, sharp-tasting leaves with a daub of lime and catechu and a few pieces of betel nut. And the most complicated, the nawabi paan, eaten by the men of the family, was an exotic blend of shredded areca, clove, cardamom, fennel, nutmeg, mace, the pollen of keya flowers, aromatic tobacco and many other things, packed into the finest, softest, most fragrant leaves.

  These were daily jobs. But there were bursts of seasonal activity as well. Properly run households, be they rich or poor, took advantage of whatever Nature in her bounty was providing at the time of the year. Thus the whole of summer, when the trees were bending over with mangoes, jackfruits, wood apples, hog plums and berries, was taken up in drying, pickling and preserving fruit. And the first short days of winter, when the newly harvested lentils were coming in from the fields, were spent in making varieties of lentil puffs which would serve the household for a whole year. The older women, along with their maids, took on these tasks. Young daughters and daughters-in-law were not even expected to join them. But Kadambari was an exception. Every morning saw her, freshly bathed and ready to set herself to any task she may be called upon to perform. Subhankari declared to the world at large that their natun bouma was a Lakshmi incarnate. And she looked like one too, with her wet hair hanging down her back and the round of sindoor glowing between her winged eyebrows. The red border of her sari, drawn over her head, framed her face, stopping just short of the forehead, for daughters-in-law of the Tagore family no longer pulled their ghumtas to their chests. Sarada’s fears that Jnanadanandini’s example would change the way younger women of Jorasanko would conduct themselves were not without foundation. The rules of the abarodh were shrinking and slackening, and neither Debendra nor Sarada had the power to stop the process.

  One of the tasks that Kadambari had taken on, without anyone asking her to, was preparing her father-in-law’s breakfast platter. Debendranath had a simple meal of fruits and milk after the morning’s upasana, following which he got ready to leave the abarodh. The timing had to be just right. If the fruits were cut too early, they turned flaccid and lost colour. If too late, there was a chance that he would leave with his breakfast uneaten. Kadambari, with her practical intelligence, found the golden mean. She discovered that discreet sprinkles of salt, sugar and spices not only improved the taste of the fruits but kept them looking fresh for a longer time. She kept everything in readiness, prior to the upasana, then, the moment it was over, she set herself to her task so that not a moment was lost. She cut the fruits, lovingly, in different shapes and sizes – in strips, wedges, slices, rings, chunks and slivers – and arranged them on the black marble platter in a tasteful design. In the centre she put a mound of white butter which she sprinkled with crystals of rock sugar, surrounded with blanched almonds.

  Kadambari brought some of the values of her middle-class upbringing into this vast opulent household run almost entirely by servants. She remembered the way her mother had taken care of her children, insisting on all of them getting their full share of nourishment though all she offered was the simple homely fare her husband could afford. Scolding one, threatening another with dire consequences, doling out little delicacies like pieces of pickle, bits of dried mango or a home-made sweet, she wouldn’t rest till all the food served to them was eaten. But here, the girl was appalled to find, nobody cared to supervise what the children were eating and how the servants were treating them. A variety of delicacies were cooked in the house every day but were served only to the adults of the family. The children were doled out bland unappetizing meals of rice, dal and fish broth, day in and day out, which, more often than not, they left uneaten. One of the first things that Kadambari noticed was the behaviour of the ancient retainer Ishwar but it was some time before she could pick up the courage to dislodge him.

  One day, sitting with Subhankari, she said, ‘Ishwar Kaka has grown old and feeble, Didima. He finds it difficult to handle the boys. Why don’t I take charge of their meals?’

  ‘You!’ Subhankari smiled indulgently. ‘Why! What a good little girl our Jyoti has brought home! But you’re a child yourself. How will you control the boys? They are quite a handful – especially Som and Satya.’

  ‘I used to look after my brothers at home. They were naughty too but they dared not disobey me.’ Kadambari rolled her eyes and looked stern.

  Subhankari burst out laughing. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You could try it out for a month. I’ll send word to the cashier that the tiffin money is to come to you from now on.’

  Kadambari turned herself into a little mother to Robi, Som and Satya from that day onwards. She coaxed them into finishing their portions of rice and fish broth before leaving for school with promises of something tasty on their return. And she kept her word. For the first time the children got palatable food cooked at home or bought from the bazaar. And there was no stinting either. Each boy
was encouraged to eat as much as he could.

  ‘Have you ever eaten paanta bhaat?’ Kadambari asked them one day.

  ‘Paanta bhaat! What’s that?’ Satya exclaimed, his eyes round.

  ‘Leftover rice soaked in water. It ferments a little and tastes delicious…’

  ‘Chha!’ Satya made a face. ‘Who wants to eat leftover rice?’

  ‘Lots of people eat it, Satya. The amount of rice that is thrown away every day in this house could feed a family of five for a month.’

  That evening, the boys came home from their school, the Oriental Seminary, to see Kadambari sitting in the gallery outside her room, mixing rice with salt, oil and green chillies in a high-rimmed bell-metal kanshi. Three medium-sized bowls containing molasses, tamarind pulp and slivers of lemon and another larger one, full of red-hot shrimp curry, waited in readiness. The three looked on in wonder and a tinge of dismay in their eyes as Kadambari’s expert fingers picked up chilli after chilli and, cracking them open by the edge of the kanshi, crushed them into the rice. Half of it was mixed with the shrimps and the other half with molasses and tamarind. Then, when all was done, she divided the two mixtures, equally, between her three charges, serving them on separate thalas, with a pinch of extra salt and a wedge of lemon in one corner.

  Never had the boys eaten anything so strange and exotic with so many subtle flavours. ‘Natun Bouthan! Natun Mami!’ they clamoured in unison, the disbelieving Satya loudest of them all, ‘you must keep paanta for us every day. We won’t eat anything else after coming from school.’

  From that day onwards the three became Kadambari’s slaves – Robi the most devoted one. He pottered about after her and helped her in whatever she did. He took turns with her as she sat fanning the flies away from the mango sheets laid out to dry in the sun, or shooing birds and squirrels away from the lentil puffs. He was quite deft with the nutcracker and insisted on shredding betel nuts for her when she prepared paan. Indeed, he did a finer job of it than many a grown woman and Kadambari never ceased to wonder and exclaim over his skill.

  Robi knew that his sister-in-law had a sour tooth and loved raw mangoes which she pounded into a mush with salt, molasses, oil and chillies to make a delectable chutney of which, of course, he got a share along with his brother and nephew. In his efforts to please her, he roamed the gardens of Jorasanko looking for windfalls. One afternoon, when a fierce hailstorm was battering the trees and the fruits were being wrenched off the branches by wind and pelting rain, he ran out and collected a basketful. But he got badly hit by the hail and stung by some bees that had got dislodged from their hive. Kadambari was shocked to see him come in, all wet and dripping, his face and arms puffed up with sting marks.

  ‘Why did you go out in the storm?’ she demanded, her voice sharp with anger.

  ‘To-to fetch some mangoes.’ Robi smiled sheepishly, holding out the basket. ‘You like raw mang—’

  ‘So?’ Kadambari interrupted sternly. ‘Did I tell you to run out in the rain and hail? You’re a very naughty boy. I don’t want your mangoes.’

  Robi’s heart sank. He had wanted to please her. He had done everything in his power to make her happy ever since the day he had found her crying, on the veranda, with Kusum Kumari in her lap. But she wasn’t pleased. No one was pleased with him either at home or at school. Everyone called him a foolish boy. His lips trembled and tears stood in his eyes. He put down the basket at her feet and turned to leave the room.

  ‘Stop!’ Kadambari called as he reached the door. ‘Come to me, Robi.’

  But Robi stood where he was, his heart swelling with pain and shame at her rejection of his gift. Kadambari ran to him and gripped his shoulder. But he shook her off. ‘I must go,’ he said with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘I must finish my lessons.’

  ‘You can finish them later. Turn your face. Look at me.’ Slowly, unwillingly, Robi turned and raised his eyes to hers. His heart missed a beat. The tears in her eyes and the expression in them were at complete variance with the sharpness of her voice. No one had looked at him like that before. Drawing him to her, she wiped his head with her aanchal, then, sending for a bowl of lime and turmeric, she daubed the stings on his face and arms with tender fingers.

  ‘Why did you do such a thing, Robi?’ she asked in a changed voice. ‘Don’t you know how dangerous it is to go out in a storm? You could have been struck by lightning. And see, how cold and wet you are! I only hope you don’t catch a fever. Are the bite marks hurting a lot?’

  Robi stared at her. He had spent his short life, physically and metaphorically, in the uncharted, elusive space between the baar mahal and the abarodh and felt like an intruder everywhere. The women, including his mother and sisters, shooed him away whenever they saw him hovering around, and the men, intent on their own tasks and amusements, didn’t even notice his presence. His mejo bouthan had shown him some kindness, occasionally, but she had been gone from the house these many years. Now, looking into Kadambari’s eyes, he felt he had found a mooring, a green bank where he could drop anchor and find sanctuary. The princess of his romantic dreams and the loving caring woman his soul yearned for had fused in her and become one.

  A few months after this, Robi had his upanayan ceremony jointly with his brother Som. Debendranath, though a Brahmo, never forgot his Brahminical ancestry and insisted on performing all the rituals pertaining to it. After donning the thread, the two boys, looking like brahmacharis from an ancient Indian gurukul, with their tonsured heads, saffron robes, wooden clogs and long staffs, came and stood before the women of the house. Bhagawati bheekshang dehi, they mumbled, red-faced with embarrassment. The women, including their mother and aunts, touched their feet before emptying platters of rice and lentils into their satchels. For they were Brahmins now, twice-borns, next only to the gods, and were on a symbolic journey to Kashi and begging for alms on the way. Kadambari giggled when her turn came. Kissing their foreheads, she gave them the gold rings she had pestered Jyotirindra to buy for his brothers.

  ‘O ki! O ki!’ some of the women exclaimed. ‘Touch the feet of the Brahmins first and seek their blessings.’ But Kadambari only laughed and stroked their shaven heads. ‘Keep the rings safe,’ she cautioned. ‘Don’t take them off your fingers.’

  Robi lost his within a week. It was loose for him and slipped off when he was bathing in the pond. ‘Foolish boy!’ Kadambari scolded. ‘Such a big boy and so careless! Wait till your Natun dada hears of this. He’ll give you such a talking to…’

  But, fortunately for Robi, he was spared his big brother’s lecture. The very next day his father sent for him, in his mother’s apartment, and said, ‘I’m leaving Jorasanko early next month. Would you like to come with me?’

  Would he like to? Robi’s head spun and he couldn’t even nod in reply. Sarada looked up from her paan box and asked her husband, ‘Will you be taking them both with you?’

  ‘Not Som,’ Debendranath answered gravely, ‘only Robi.’

  ‘Why not Som?’

  Debendranath did not reply. ‘You’ll need warm clothes,’ he told Robi, ‘and a cap. Give Niyamat your measurements tomorrow.’

  When the two other boys heard of this, Som’s face turned sullen and rebellious. ‘Babamoshai doesn’t love me,’ he said, looking daggers at his brother, ‘though I’m better than you in studies.’ Satya, who had recently visited Bolpur with his parents, covered up his disappointment with a lengthy lecture to Robi on how to conduct himself on the journey. ‘Getting into a train is not easy,’ he said solemnly. ‘The utmost skill is needed and the timing must be perfect. And when you sit, be sure to press your weight very firmly on the seat. If you’re careless; if you relax even for a moment, disaster will follow.’

  ‘What… what disaster?’ Robi asked anxiously. ‘What will happen?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ The seasoned traveller shook his head ominously. ‘You’ll find out when the time comes. All I can tell you is that a boy flew out of the window, once, the minute the train started to m
ove. His body was never recovered,’ he ended darkly.

  So, Robi readied himself to perform great feats of agility while boarding the train. At the station, as it snaked into the platform and his father steered him towards their compartment, he did some skipping and leaping exercises so that his legs wouldn’t fail him when the time came to get in. But his father heaved his great hefty body so easily up the steps that the boy was left staring open-mouthed. After both were safely in, and Robi had taken his seat by the window, he gripped the bars with both hands. ‘Satya was wrong about the boarding,’ he said to himself. ‘It wasn’t difficult at all. But the real test is going to come now. When the train starts to move. A boy flew out of the window, Satya said. But how?’ Robi puzzled this out for a few minutes and came up with the answer. ‘Perhaps the train he was travelling in didn’t have bars on the windows.’ He glanced at his father who sat opposite him, reading a newspaper and thought, ‘Babamoshai should be more careful. Why doesn’t he hold on to something? What if the train starts moving suddenly?’ He had a horrifying vision of something like an explosion following the starting of the train and of his father’s body being flung off his seat and lying on the floor of the compartment.

  ‘What’s wrong, Robi?’ Debendranath looked up with a puzzled frown. ‘Why are you holding on to the bars?’

  ‘No… nothing… nothing’s wrong.’

  Whistles blew. There were clanging noises and clouds of steam, and the train moved forward with a jerk, so mild, Robi hardly felt it. It was pulling out of the station now, slowly at first, then gathering speed. Robi felt his body swaying but it was a pleasing sensation. He relaxed one hand from the window, then the other. But he didn’t fall. He was so happy, he laughed out aloud. The train was running very fast now, passing rice fields, ponds dotted with lotus and clumps of coconut palms. Robi leaned out of his seat as far he could, and gazed on the rapidly changing scene, his eyes entranced.