The travels undertaken by father and son lasted several months. Their first stop was Bolpur, then Sahebganj, Danapur, Allahabad, Kanpur and Amritsar, before ascending the mountains to Dalhousie. Debendranath had a purpose in bringing Robi with him. His youngest son was a shy, sensitive lad with many inhibitions, and performed poorly in everything he was taught. He was bad at studies, showed no interest in sports and athletics, and his music tutors complained that he didn’t apply himself at all. He skipped classes most of the time and, when he did attend, he sat with a glazed look in his eyes as though he heard nothing and understood nothing. Yet Debendranath did not give up hope. His friend Anandachandra Vidyabagish had predicted a glorious future for this son of his. And, for some reason, Debendranath believed him. Why, he could not say. He had an instinct about Robi, as he did about all his children. And his instinct told him that there were exceptional qualities buried within the child. So deep, they were invisible to the naked eye. He had no idea, yet, of what they were. But he was determined to find out.
How was he to do it? The way the boy was being handled now was, obviously, the wrong way. But what was the right way? Debendranath pondered the question deeply, over many months, sharing his thoughts with no one. Then, suddenly, an idea struck him. He would take him away from his present environment into a totally different one. Much like plucking a tender plant out of a barren, arid soil and embedding it in a rich, loamy one. New sights, new people, new experiences – above all the freedom of wide open spaces, clear blue skies and the rejuvenating air of the mountains might coax the possibilities lying dormant within him to unfurl and reveal themselves.
Robi’s true education started, now, at his father’s hands. Sensitive hands that sought, identified and quarried with care. Debendranath spent his mornings talking to the boy, easily and pleasantly, on a variety of subjects, inviting him to respond, giving full weightage to his opinions. He set him simple tasks, making them as unlesson-like as possible, and smiled indulgently when they were accomplished. The rest of the day was Robi’s to do what he liked with it. He was allowed, even encouraged, to roam freely among the hills and valleys and explore and imbibe the phenomena around him. And, every evening, they sat together, Debendranath in his favourite armchair, pulling at his albola, and Robi on a strip of carpet at his feet. They sat thus for hours, looking out on sky and mountain, the father pointing to the stars and planets and telling his son their names.
‘Do you know the song Tumi bina ke prabhu, Robi?’ Debendranath asked him one day.
‘Yes, Babamoshai,’ Robi responded enthusiastically.
‘Do you know the name of the composer?’
‘Yes.’ The boy raised his head proudly. ‘Satyendranath Tagore ICS.’
Debendranath laughed. ‘Can you identify the raag?’ he probed cautiously.
‘It is behaag, Babamoshai.’
Debendranath nodded, well satisfied. The boy may not have been paying attention to his music lessons but he was picking up all the same. Perhaps this was the only way he could learn. ‘Sing it,’ he commanded, ‘let me hear you.’
Robi crossed his legs, cleared his throat and commenced singing in a high, fluty voice, jerking his head with the beat.
‘You have a good voice, Robi.’ Debendranath placed a hand on the boy’s head. ‘And a good ear for tone and rhythm. Who knows, you too may grow up to be a composer like your Mejo dada!’
‘A composer like Mejo dada!’ Robi looked up with shining eyes. ‘Can I?’
‘Why not? Everything is possible. In fact, it is never too early to begin. Why don’t you compose a song tonight and sing it to me tomorrow?’
Robi stared at his father for a while, then nothing else forthcoming, he turned his eyes slowly to the scene in front of him. The sun was sinking beyond the mountains in the west, a vast ball of fading vermilion, and, from the east, a shy, shimmering, silver disc rose trembling from a lake of lilac and purple shadows. Next to it, the first star of the evening glimmered like a pearl. It was the first time that the boy had seen sun, moon and star in the sky together…
Next morning, Robi came to his father and said shyly, ‘I’ve composed a song, Babamoshai.’
Debendranath put down his albola. ‘Have you?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Why don’t you sing it to me?’
Robi sat at his father’s feet and sang: Gagan er thaale robi chandra deepak jwale…
In the sky’s platter, the sun and moon have lighted lamps Pearls gleam from a star-spangled gloom.
The air, blue as incense smoke, waves like a fan brush And beams burst from the heavens like a forest in bloom.
What greetings are these that earth shattering rebounds? What unstruck drums beat out this volley of sounds?
Debendranath had begun listening to the song, his foot tapping and head wagging routinely. But as it progressed, his body stiffened; his mind became alert. And when it ended, he turned to the singer, a startled look on his face. He stared for a full minute, unable to tear his eyes away. It took him some time to grasp the complexity of what he had just heard. The theme had been derived from the evening rituals the boy had seen in the Golden Temple of Amritsar, and he had borrowed the tune from the shabad keertan he had heard. But how effortlessly he had adapted it to the Bangla words! And how had he even thought of connecting it with the skyscape they had seen last evening? That the firmament unveils itself, evening after evening, lighting its myriad lamps of moon, stars and planets in greeting to the One Supreme Power who rules the universe! That every night sky was an arati to Him! What a rare, profound idea! Debendranath had spent years meditating on the glories of God’s creation, but such a thought had never come to him. Tears stung his eyes and a hard lump formed in his throat.
It was a sensation that he hadn’t experienced in decades. He tried to think of a time when he had been similarly affected but couldn’t remember. His son’s voice, faint, timid, fearing failure, ‘Is… is it all right, Babamoshai?’ brought him back to the present. Debendranath drew the child to him. ‘Write every day,’ was all that he could say. ‘Keep on writing.’
Gagan er thaale was Robi Thakur’s first lyric. From this time onwards, encouraged by his father’s faith in him, and secure in the mantle of love and care that Kadambari had wrapped around him, Robi came gradually into his own. Without even knowing it, he embarked on a voyage of self-discovery, one that renewed itself over and over again. A quest fraught with many hazards, joys and sorrows, triumphs and reverses, but never abandoned.
1873–1879
I
Like Robi, Kadambari was also on a quest. But hers was of a different kind. As she matured in years and grew in grace and loveliness, her soul yearned for love; the passionate, romantic love of a full-blooded male. And who could fit the role better than her handsome, gifted husband, the darling of the family and the cynosure of all eyes? She remembered the gasps of astonishment that had risen from the congregation of wedding guests the moment the bridegroom was brought into the hall and her own awed wonder when she had raised her eyes to his during the auspicious exchange of glances. She had given her nine-year-old heart away along with the garland she had taken from her neck and hung on his. But had he done the same? She did not know.
How did a woman win a husband’s love? Such a husband’s love? She learned, very quickly, that he had an aesthetic temperament and she set herself to surrounding him with objects of beauty. She hung lace curtains at her windows and filled her rooms with flowers. The high bed on which they slept was always spread with snowy sheets and the pillows had embroidered covers. She ordered dozens of pots for the portion of the terrace that ran alongside their apartment and grew a variety of ferns, aromatic shrubs and flowering plants. From the trellis, she hung cages of different shapes and sizes full of brightly coloured birds. And here, every day at dusk, she unrolled mats, carefully wiped them over with a damp cloth and spread them with cushions and bolsters. She placed her husband’s violin, reverently, in one corner with a bowl full of jasmine beside it. And, into thi
s bower of bliss, she invited him to come and spend the evening with her.
Jyotirindra seemed pleased with her efforts and was gentle and tender, chatting pleasantly of this and that, and even playing the violin and singing to her when she asked him to. But how many evenings did he spend at home? Supervision of the estates took him away from Kolkata for long stretches. But, even when in town, he had little time for her. He spent long hours lecturing at the Adi Brahmo Samaj, holding meetings, and examining the accounts. And he spent even longer hours over his writing. He had become quite a prolific playwright, with a penchant for comedy and farce. He had recently written a play called Kinchit Jalajog in which he had taken quite a few playful digs at modern women and their aspirations for independence and equality with men – a theme which had sparked off a lively debate with him on one side and Jnanadanandini and Swarnakumari on the other. He had also started a business in indigo. But, as his father told him, he had more enthusiasm than knowledge and experience, and it was clear that he wouldn’t make a success of it.
Kadambari saw, and the realization cut her to the heart, that he never sought her out himself. He came to her only when she sent for him, spoke to her easily but briefly, then departed with promises of giving her more time in future. And he didn’t seem to miss her at all during his long absences from Kolkata. He came back with glowing accounts of the wide beautiful river on which he had sailed in the family boat Padma from estate to estate, of the hunting and fishing he had done, the songs he had written and the scenes he had painted. He brought presents for her, lengths of silk and muga, coloured bangles of bevelled glass, silver anklets and green beetle teeps bought from the local tradesmen who crowded at the ghat the moment the zamindar’s boat reached their village. She took them and was grateful. But, deep within, she felt only frustration and despair. He never said that he had missed her or that he would take her with him on his next trip. It wasn’t as if the men of Jorasanko did not take their wives with them anywhere. Her sister-in-law Jnanadanandini accompanied her husband wherever he went. She visited Jorasanko only once a year, coming with him and departing with him as soon as his leave ended. She hadn’t even come for her pregnancies. Her first child Surendranath had been born in Poona and her daughter Indira, nicknamed Bibi, a year later in Bijapur where her husband was posted.
Kadambari’s heart twisted with pain at the thought of her sister-in-law. Not only was she adored by her own husband, there was no way in which she, Kadambari, could miss the special glow in Jyotirindra’s eyes whenever he saw her; it was so obvious. He admired her greatly and, as a matter of fact, so did she. Jnanada was so beautiful and regal looking, so articulate and intelligent. She could converse on any subject – art, music, literature, politics – with a knowledge and confidence equal to any man’s. She was warm and generous too, loving and giving. Kadambari never forgot the way she had organized Kusum Kumari’s wedding and the pains she had taken over it. But… but, for a woman with so many excellent qualities, she was singularly obtuse to Kadambari’s needs, her loneliness and her craving for her husband’s attention. Jnanada teased her brotherin-law, and chatted and flirted with him for hours together, sidelining the little wife completely. Of course, Kadambari told herself, over and over again, they were about the same age, had grown up together and had many interests in common, many things to talk about and many memories to share. She swallowed her hurt and waited for the day when he would look at her the way he looked at Jnanada. But the waiting went on and on…
Kadambari tried to make herself attractive to her husband in many ways. She wore her prettiest saris and did up her hair with special care. She had a bottle of French perfume which she used rarely, not caring for the scent. It was too foreign and exotic. She preferred the natural fragrance of fresh flowers. After her bath she took up handfuls of champa, juin or shiuli – whatever was in season – and pressed them under her armpits and between her breasts so that her body always smelt fresh and sweet. She tried to improve her mind too. She gave up reading cheap novels and romances and turned to serious books of which her husband kept a stock in their apartment. History and politics she found dull and dreary but she took, instantly and spontaneously, to poetry. In this she found a soul mate in Robi. One of the treasures they had discovered in Jyotirindra’s collection was Prachin Kavya Sangraha, an anthology culled from the works of the Vaishnav poets. Robi and she were enchanted by the language and sentiments, the flow and cadence of the lyrics. Kadambari felt that she had discovered, at last, the key to a magical world of love and romance. A world she had sought for so long and never found. She yearned to share her discovery with her husband. But, though it was he who had paid the subscription for the volumes, he neither cared to read the poems or have them read out to him. He was very busy trying out a new genre, which was as far as it could be from the work of the Vaishnav poets. He was writing a historical play called Puru Vikram.
It was natural then that Kadambari turned to Robi. In his ears she poured out all the love and longing and the ecstasy and despair the lyrics inspired, the emotions that filled her heart to overflowing. Robi was writing poetry, too, these days, and they made a pact. They would share their thoughts only with one another and Kadambari would be the first to read whatever Robi had written.
But though Robi’s affection for her warmed Kadambari’s heart and wiped away a lot of her pain, she redoubled her efforts to earn her husband’s appreciation and win his love. One evening, after she had made Jyotirindranath play the violin and sing by the light of the moon, she said shyly, ‘I can’t sing like you. But I’ve read a lot of poetry and can recite…’ She had hoped he would be impressed. She had been sure of it. In fact, she had planned the conversation that would follow and rehearsed it several times. ‘Really!’ he would exclaim. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ Then he would urge her to recite a poem and she would beg to be let off. But he would persist and, ultimately, she would give in. Raising her eyes to the sky she would recite, with all the feeling she was capable of, Vidyapati’s exquisite lyric: E bhara bhaadara / maaha bhaadara / shunya mandir mor.
But nothing like that happened. All he said was, ‘You read poetry? Do you like Biharilal Chakravarty’s poems? He is Bado dada’s friend.’ Kadambari nodded. ‘I know… but what I really like is…’
‘Good,’ Jyotirindra interrupted. ‘I’ll invite him tomorrow evening and you can hear him recite his poems in his own voice.’
‘No. No.’ Kadambari wasn’t keen on anyone making up a threesome in the few evenings they spent together. ‘There’s no need to invite him.’
‘Why not? He’ll be flattered to hear you’ve read his poems.’
Biharilal Chakravarty came the next day and, from thenceforth, became a frequent visitor. Gradually others joined him: Janakinath Ghoshal, Gunendranath Tagore, Akshay Choudhury, friends and cousins of Jyotirindra’s. Kadambari looked on helplessly as the romantic evenings she had planned so lovingly turned into exuberant parties with music, poetry readings and discussions of art and theatre. Jyotirindra was a genial host and liked to ply his friends with an unending stream of sherbet, snacks and sweets. Sometimes, if the hour was late, he invited them to stay on for dinner. Needless to say, it became Kadambari’s responsibility to ensure that there was always an ample supply of delicacies.
One afternoon, Jyotirindranath came bursting into his apartment. ‘I have to leave for Shilaidaha early tomorrow morning,’ he told his wife. ‘Get my things together.’
‘Why?’ Kadambari was surprised by his flushed face and agitated manner. ‘I mean why… so suddenly?’
‘Babamoshai gave me a long lecture. He said I was neglecting the estates and wasting my time in writing plays and entertaining my friends. He commanded me to proceed to Shilaidaha immediately and oversee the collection of the rents.’
‘Oh!’ Suddenly Kadambari had an idea. ‘Why don’t you take Robi with you?’ she suggested. ‘He hasn’t quite recovered from the fever. The fresh air will do him good.’
Robi and Kad
ambari had contracted malaria during the rains and, though the fever had left them, they were still quite weak and listless. Kadambari had fared worse than Robi. She had lost a lot of weight and a terrible lassitude weighed down her limbs. She had made the suggestion with the hope that her husband would offer to take them both. But, though Jyotirindra was looking at her face, he was thinking of something else. Thus he failed to see how pale it was and how huge her eyes were above her sunken cheeks.
‘Robi!’ Jyotirindranath tapped his teeth thoughtfully with a pencil. ‘Yes. Yes, I could do that I suppose. Pack his things too. It gets a bit cold on the river at this time of the year. Put in some warm stuff.’
Kadambari longed to tell him that she wanted to go with them. He would have taken her along if she had asked him. She knew that. But her hurt pride prevented her. Why should she beg him for favours? Had she no self-respect? Couldn’t he see for himself that she was sick too? Besides, her mother had told her that a girl must never be too forward with her husband or make claims on him. Men didn’t like pushy women. So, Jyotirindra left her, for who knew how long, taking with him the only friend she had in the house.
Deprived of both her husband and brother-in-law, Kadambari felt morose and bereft. And, added to her loneliness, was a physical lethargy she had never known before. Her head ached incessantly, her mouth was as bitter as the quinine she had swallowed in such large doses, and she lost her appetite. But she told no one of how she felt and no one, in that great house packed with people, noticed how little she was eating and how pale and wan she had become. She went about her duties, performing them meticulously, but looking vague and disconnected, till a diversion came her way.
Swarnakumari came to Jorasanko for the birth of her fourth child. She had three already – two daughters Hiranmayi and Sarala, and a son Jyotsnanath. They were given the rooms next to Kadambari’s, for this was going to be an extended visit. Janakinath was preparing to go to England to study at the Bar and had already given up his job as a government assessor. Before settling his wife in the apartment that would be her home for several years, Janakinath made a number of changes. The walls were repainted and the windows enlarged. The old antiquated furniture, dating from Dwarkanath’s early days, were replaced with canopied beds, horse-hair sofas, high-backed petit point chairs, walnut tables and whatnots. Carpets were spread on the floors, and paintings by English masters hung on the walls. A horse and carriage was installed in the stable to take his wife and children for drives in the park every evening.
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