Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  ‘Thinking of his sons!’ Tripura echoed, her lips twisting with contempt. ‘At my expense.’

  ‘Give the offer a thought,’ Ganendra said peaceably. ‘Don’t dismiss it in a fit of pique. After all is said and done, what will you do with a plot of land you can’t build upon or sell? What is it worth to you as of now? It’s just a piece of paper in your hands.’

  ‘The piece of paper represents my legal rights, Ganendra. As the wife of my husband and a member of this family. Your uncle wants to take them away from me by pensioning me off and you are supporting him.’

  ‘Not at all. There’s no question of pensioning you off. You’ll continue living with us exactly as you have done all these years. We can’t do without you. You know that.’

  ‘Why the settlement then?’

  ‘Jethamoshai thought…’ Ganendra’s voice shook, and he broke off in mid-sentence.

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘He wished to give you the financial independence you wanted.’

  Tripura sighed. The fire died out of her eyes and they grew moist. ‘You’re a man, Ganendra,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ll never understand a woman’s sentiments.’

  ‘No one will force you to do anything against your will, Chhoto kaki,’ Ganendra said gently. ‘Least of all me. But don’t dismiss the matter so summarily. Give it a thought. And when you arrive at a decision, let me know.’

  Whether Tripura Sundari dismissed her brother-inlaw’s proposal without a thought, or gave it some serious consideration no one knew, for she made no mention of the matter. She went about her usual tasks. After several weeks of waiting, Debendranath sent for his nephew once again.

  ‘I asked her to think it over and let me have her decision,’ Ganendra told his uncle. ‘But she has said nothing yet.’

  ‘Have you tried to find out why?’

  ‘No,’ Ganendra said simply.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I have a feeling she’ll refuse outright.’

  Debendranath bit his lip. He hadn’t anticipated such a reaction. His lawyers had said that Tripura would jump at the proposal and he had believed them. If anything, he had felt somewhat peeved and resentful. As if he was being made to pay a high price for something that should have come to him automatically. But he hadn’t thought, in his wildest dreams, that Tripura would reject his offer. What an obstinate, arrogant woman she was! She needed to be taught a lesson. ‘Send Guno to me,’ he dismissed Ganendra. ‘Tell him I wish to see him at once.’ Guno was more astute than his older brother and had more influence with his aunt. She would listen to him.

  Gunendra brought Tripura his uncle’s message. ‘Jethamoshai has doubled his offer,’ he said excitedly. ‘He’s prepared to pay you ten thousand rupees at one go and one thousand rupees annually.’

  Tripura looked sadly at the boy whom she had thought of as a part of herself. ‘You too, Guno!’ was all that she could say.

  ‘I think it is a generous offer.’ Gunendra shot her an uneasy glance. ‘Why do you hesitate?’

  ‘Why do you think I hesitate?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine why. Settle the matter, Chhoto Kaki, and let us all breathe easy.’

  Tripura sighed. This was her Guno! Whom she had brought up as the child she had never borne. Whom she had wanted to adopt legally and give her husband’s share. A fact that lay at the root of her brother-in-law’s animosity. Yet, and she was assailed by an awed wonder, he was standing before her pleading his uncle’s case. He cared nothing for her feelings. Why is it that men always pull together, she thought despondently, and women never? She could understand the silence of the women of No. 6. They stood in awe of Debendranath. But what about Jogmaya? She knew what was going on but kept herself aloof. Her voice was never heard, either to rebuke her sons or to console her sister-in-law. Tripura puzzled over this for a few minutes and suddenly arrived at the truth. Jogmaya’s sons were dependent on their uncle for the steady flow of funds that came from the estates and kept them in a style far more lavish than that of their cousins. And that without lifting a finger. Neither mother nor sons dared risk his ire.

  ‘So be it,’ Tripura said suddenly. So abruptly that Gunendranath was taken aback. He opened his mouth to say something but she stopped him with an imperious wave of her hand. ‘There’s nothing more to be said. Tell Bado Thakur to prepare the papers. I’m ready to sign them.’ She held his eyes briefly, then swept out of the room.

  Tripura spent the whole night weeping, the tears coursing silently down her cheeks and drenching her pillow. She wondered what she would do next. That she couldn’t go on living in this house was as plain as daylight. She didn’t belong here; had never belonged here. She had left her parents at the age of seven and made this house her home. She had embraced her husband’s family and given it all she had. She had thought it was hers. But it wasn’t. No one loved her. No one cared to understand her sentiments. No one would shed a genuine tear if she died tomorrow. ‘A woman is nothing in her husband’s home but a glorified servant,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Her value lies only in the presence, the actual physical presence, of a husband and sons. Her own qualities are of little consequence. I wonder why I didn’t realize it all these years! Why I’ve been so blind!’

  Was there any place in the world where a woman was valued? Not as a daughter-in-law, a wife or a mother but for herself? Where she wasn’t put to the test, time after time, and found wanting? Where, for instance, would she, Tripura Sundari Devi, find sanctuary if she decided to leave her husband’s home? With my own kin of course! The answer came to her even before she could formulate her question fully. With those who grew from the same roots. Whose blood I share. Even as the thought came to her, a tiny flicker of fear leaped in her veins. You may have sprung from the same roots, a voice within her whispered, but you’ve been nurtured by a different sun and breathed a different air. Can you embrace them and they you? Tripura dismissed the voice. Yes, she answered courageously, if Sita could return to her earth mother after being spurned by Ram, so can I go back to my own people.

  Tripura went to Jogmaya’s room the next day and announced her intention of leaving Baithak Khana Bari as soon as the legal papers were signed and the formalities concluded.

  ‘Where will you go?’ Jogmaya stared at her sister-in-law. ‘Have you gone mad, Chhoto Bou?’

  ‘No,’ Tripura answered evenly. ‘I was mad once. When I thought this was my home and this family my family. But now I’m perfectly sane.’

  The news spread within a few hours, first within Baithak Khana Bari, then beyond it to the other house.

  ‘Good riddance!’ Debendranath muttered. ‘The sooner the better.’

  But no one else shared his sentiments. Jogmaya’s sons crept about, their faces dark with guilt and shame, not daring to face their aunt. Their wives were shocked and distraught and begged Tripura to reconsider her decision. ‘Don’t go,’ they entreated her with tears in their eyes, ‘We can’t do without you.’ In this they were entirely sincere. Tripura was an integral part of their lives. Their own mother-in-law had withdrawn from the affairs of this world and was busy piling up merit for the next. The one person they could turn to, in all their difficulties, was their chhoto kaki. ‘Who’ll look after us when you are gone?’ they wept and clung to her. ‘We’ll be completely bereft.’ Tripura felt the tears rising to her eyes but she hardened her heart and said, ‘No one is indispensable, least of all I. You’ll manage very well. Don’t worry.’

  The family of No. 6 also loved Tripura Sundari and depended on her in many ways. Debendranath’s sons, daughters and daughters-in-law came singly, and in batches, to persuade her to stay. But Tripura shook her head. ‘Everyone has to go sometime or other,’ she said. ‘In one way or another. My turn has come.’

  One afternoon, Kadambari came to see her, carrying Urmila, Swarnakumari’s two-year-old daughter, in her arms. Tripura was kneeling on the floor in front of a huge wooden chest, sorting through some stoneware. Sets of plain, streaked and
mottled marble lay scattered around her. ‘Natun Bouma!’ she looked up from her work and smiled. ‘Come. Come.’

  Kadambari set the child down and sank to the floor beside the older woman. Lifting the edge of her smoke-blue jamdani sari, she wiped the fine dew that had appeared on her brow and upper lip.

  Tripura shot a searching glance at her. She didn’t appear well at all. She was panting and her eyes were enormous and shadowy in a long pale face. ‘You’re out of breath, Ma,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have walked in this heat carrying that heavy child in your arms. Why couldn’t her ayah carry her?’

  Kadambari giggled self-consciously. ‘She won’t leave me for a moment, Chhoto Kaki,’ she said. There was a faint tinge of pride in her voice.

  ‘I know.’ Tripura sighed. Then, smiling at her guest, she added, ‘I hope you haven’t come to persuade me to stay.’

  ‘No,’ Kadambari replied instantly. ‘No. I’ve only come to spend some time with you.’

  ‘Good. Just give me a few minutes to finish what I’ve begun. Then I’ll wash my hands, fetch you some coconut water and we’ll have a chat.’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ Kadambari said, stretching out on the floor and closing her eyes. ‘I’ll rest for a while.’

  Tripura finished her work, washed her hands and feet and fetched two bowls of coconut water. She looked long and hard at the sleeping Kadambari. It is strange, she thought whimsically, how one person’s fate mirrors another’s. This girl and I, for instance. We were both one of many daughters. Our fathers were poor and we were far from beautiful. Yet we were married to handsome, brilliant scions of a wealthy, powerful family. Everyone marvelled at our destiny. But what a destiny! Weighed down by diffidence and self-doubt, neglected by our husbands, branded as barren from the age of fourteen. I saw my sister-in-law enshrined in her husband’s heart and adored by her children just as she does. I reached out to Guno, as she does to Swarna’s daughter. I’ve seen my end. She has yet to see hers. But something tells me it will not be very different…

  Shaking Kadambari gently awake, she offered her a bowl and said, ‘Drink this up, child. It will refresh you.’ They chatted of this and that, for some time, then Kadambari rose to leave. Stooping, she touched Tripura’s feet. Her eyes glistened. ‘You’ll visit us sometimes, won’t you, Chhoto Kaki?’ She smiled.

  ‘Of course,’ Tripura said lightly but she knew she wouldn’t. Then, as Kadambari moved towards the door with Urmila in her arms, she said suddenly, ‘Let me give you a piece of advice, Natun Bouma. Don’t let yourself get too attached. Try to remember that the child isn’t yours.’

  Kadambari’s face went white. ‘Why do you say that, Chhoto Kaki?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Because I’ve lived in this world longer than you and know it better. Swarna will let you raise her daughter. But she will never allow her to forget who her real mother is. When the time comes she’ll tear the child from your breast and take her away without a twinge of remorse.’

  Kadambari heard Tripura’s advice but did not take it. As each day went by, her attachment to Swarna’s little girl grew in intensity till it bordered on obsession. She kept Urmila with her all the time. And, though the child had an ayah, it was Kadambari who massaged her little limbs, fed her, told her stories, sang her to sleep and watched over her like a brooding mother bird. Swarnakumari had just published her first novel, Deep Nirmaan, and its success had fired her ambition and taken it to dizzying heights. She was writing furiously these days and had time for no one. Least of all her third daughter, whose birth she had seen as an unnecessary and unwelcome interruption in her literary career. She was the first woman writer of the Tagore family and one of the firsts of the country. She was proud of that and took her role very seriously. As a result, little Urmila passed totally into Kadambari’s hands and clung to her as to a mother.

  But despite her preoccupation with Urmila, Kadambari was as involved as ever in the life of her other protégée, Robi. Unlike his sister, who was writing fiction, and his brother, who was churning out play after play, Robi was immersed in writing poetry. He was reading a lot of it too, both in Bangla and in English. No one in the family, barring Kadambari, knew of this development in the boy who had earned for himself the reputation of shirker and idler. It was only when he went to Shilaidaha with Jyotirindra that the latter got an inkling of the boy’s potential. The spark that his father had discovered in Dalhousie, which had been carefully guarded and protected by his sister-in-law, was now fanned into a flame by his brother. A year after their return, Jyotirindra threw him a challenge which worked as a catalyst and turned him from a boy to an adult whose genius was recognized and respected not only by members of the family but by many outsiders.

  One Sunday morning, Jyotirindranath was sitting at a table, in the room adjacent to Robi’s, checking the proofs of his latest play Sarojini. By his side sat a young man called Ram Sarbaswa, who assisted him in his work. They had two sets in front of them. Jyotirindra was reading from one and suggesting changes which Ram Sarbaswa was making in the other. Coming to the scene of the jauhar brata, in which a group of Rajput women immolate themselves on a funeral pyre, Jyotirindra shook his head with dissatisfaction. ‘It doesn’t sound right, Ram Sarbaswa,’ he muttered. ‘The prose doesn’t express the awe and horror of the scene. It’s dull and lifeless. Poetry would have worked better.’

  Ram Sarbaswa nodded. ‘Would you like to rewrite it?’ he asked, adding, ‘but we have very little time.’

  Jyotirindra shook his head. ‘Leave it,’ he said. He was about to continue his reading when the sound of footsteps made them both look up. Robi stood at the door. He had changed from the tall gawky lad with big ears, and tinsel cap over tonsured head, who had written his first lyric in Dalhousie. He was a youth of fifteen now and remarkably handsome.

  ‘I heard you from the next room, Jyoti dada,’ he said in the rich, deep voice of a grown man. ‘I agree with you. The prose passage doesn’t suit the scene. A song will express it better.’

  ‘Hunh!’ Jyotirindra grunted. Taking off his pince-nez, he polished the glass with the end of his dhuti. ‘The trouble is that I have to submit the proofs this afternoon. I don’t have time to compose a song.’

  Robi was about to say something but didn’t. He stood where he was for a while, chewing his lip.

  His brother shot him a searching glance. ‘Would you like to try your hand at it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll… I’ll.’ Robi turned to leave, then, reaching the door, said timidly, ‘Don’t include it if it isn’t good.’

  A couple of hours later, he reappeared with a notebook in his hand. Putting it in front of his brother, he said, ‘See if you like the words. I’ve thought of a tune too…’

  Jyotirindra opened the notebook and turned a few pages. The flyleaf bore the title Malati Punthi written in Robi’s fine, flowing hand. The next three or four pages were blank except for the words Hecate Thakrun appearing in the middle of each page.

  ‘Hecate Thakrun!’ Jyotirindra peered at the boy’s face and laughed. ‘Hecate and Thakrun. A strange combination! What made you think of it?’

  Robi joined in the laughter but he felt his ears flaming. ‘Just a whim,’ he said lightly. Then, leaning forward, he turned the pages till he came to the last written one. Jyotirindra adjusted his glasses and read aloud: Jwala jwala chita dwigun dwigun…

  Burn pyre burn, leap double fold—

  Embrace in your flames this widowed lass.

  Burn fire burn, with all your might

  And quench the thirst of a searing soul…

  ‘Good… good,’ Jyotirindra said slowly, nodding his head several times. Then, looking at Ram Sarbaswa, he asked, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It will… work,’ the younger man answered thoughtfully, hesitantly.

  ‘Work?’ Suddenly Jyotirindra bounded out of his chair and flung his arms in the air. ‘It’s marvellous! It expresses the emotions exactly. Sing it to me, Robi.’ Snatching his violin from a corne
r of the room, he asked, ‘What raag have you set it to? And what taal?’

  ‘The raag is Bhupali, Jyoti dada, set to ektaal.’

  In the next few minutes the room was filled with the lilting strains of Jyotirindra’s violin and the vibrant baritone of Robi’s voice.

  Robi went back to his room and, sinking into a chair, wiped his forehead. ‘Phew!’ he breathed, ‘What a narrow escape! I shouldn’t have taken the notebook to Jyoti dada. What uncomfortable questions he asked!’

  Hecate Thakrun. It was a codename for Natun Bouthan; a secret only the two of them shared.

  ‘Your name is too ordinary,’ he had said to her one day. ‘There’s a Kadambari in every lane and alley of Kolkata. You deserve something more exclusive.’

  ‘And what may that be?’

  Robi stepped back and studied her from a distance. ‘There’s something about you,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘the shape of your face, the sweep of your hair, your eyebrows… and your eyes, especially your eyes, that make me think of a Greek goddess.’

  ‘A Greek goddess!’ Kadambari giggled. ‘Am I that beautiful?’

  ‘No,’ Robi answered innocently, unaware that it wasn’t a very polite thing to say. ‘I don’t see you as one of the beautiful ones like Venus, for instance, or Proserpine. There’s something deep and mysterious about you. Something ageless and timeless. Your name should be Medusa… or Tethys… or even Hecate. Yes, why not? Hecate is just right.’

  ‘Hecate!’ Kadambari grimaced. ‘What an odd name! I’ve read so many legends of Greece but I’ve never heard of Hecate. Who was she?’

  ‘She was a daughter of the Titans, predating Zeus and the Olympians. She was Goddess of the Moon, the Earth and the Underworld combined. But she is better known as the patron queen of witchcraft. And…’ He glanced at little Urmila sleeping peacefully in Kadambari’s lap. ‘She was a fosterer of human children.’

  ‘I don’t like the name.’