‘I’m giving it to you anyway. I shall call you Hecate from today.’
‘You can’t call me by name!’ Kadambari rolled her eyes severely at him. ‘I’m older than you.’
‘Then I shall call you Hecate Thakrun.’
Both burst out laughing so loudly that Urmila was jolted awake. Opening her eyes, she asked, ‘Why are you laughing, Natun mami?’
Kadambari stroked the child’s hair and whispered in her ear, ‘Because your Robi mama has just turned me into a goddess.’
‘A goddess and a witch.’ Robi wiggled his fingers in the little one’s face. ‘Your Natun mami can turn you into a bird or a flower. Or even a frog if you are naughty. Beware of Natun mami! Beware! Beware!’
The success of Jwala jwala chita catapulted Robi from boy to man. He was now respectfully acknowledged as one of the members of Jyotirindra’s evening assemblies and treated on par with the likes of Akshay Choudhuri and Biharilal Chakravarty. Robi and Kadambari were hearing more and more of Biharilal’s poetry these days and both, Kadambari more than Robi, were highly impressed. ‘No one will call you a poet,’ she told her young brother-in-law whenever she felt he was growing overconfident or complacent, ‘till you write like Biharilal babu.’
‘Why not?’ Robi exclaimed indignantly. ‘Your great Biharilal Chakravarty himself told me that I write very well and will be a great poet someday.’
‘He said that because you’re only a little boy.’
‘You never see any good in me!’ Robi’s face turned red and sullen. ‘You’re always criticizing me.’
‘That’s not true, Robi.’ Kadambari pinched her lips trying not to laugh. ‘I always give praise where praise is due. You have quite a few talents. Your skill with the nutcracker, for one. No one, I repeat, no one can slice betel nuts as finely as you.’
Robi threw her a burning glance and flounced off from the room.
It was from these evening gatherings that Jyotirindranath got the idea of starting a journal. And from an idea it grew into a dream. There were so many fine poets among them, he thought, but they were like birds floating in the air without drift or direction. Their songs broke the stillness of the sky, but only momentarily, then faded away without an echo. If only something, like a nest, could be created in which their melodies could be stored! Towards which lovers of poetry could veer…
From these thoughts the first journal of the house of Jorasanko was born. Dwijendranath christened it Bharati and was designated its first editor. But that was only in name. Bharati was Jyotirindra’s dream project and he threw himself, heart and soul, into its functioning. He collected all the matter and undertook all the hard work of editing and design. But, approaching Robi for a selection of his poetry, he was surprised. Robi declined, though he had a substantial stock in his Malati Punthi. Robi feared that his poems wouldn’t stand competition with Biharilal Chakravarty’s, before whose mature style his own would appear raw and jejune. In consequence, his contribution to the first issue of Bharati was a scholarly critique of Michael Madhusudan Dutt’s Meghnad Badh Kavya and a short story entitled ‘Bhikharini’.
However, Robi soon found a novel way of overcoming his diffidence. He was greatly inspired by the work of Thomas Chatterton with whom, he felt, he had many qualities in common. Their extreme youth and their passion for immortality were the obvious ones. Both were dreamers trapped in a world in which they only half believed. Robi’s companion in this world was Kadambari for whom the romantic philosophy of the Radha Krishna legend, as expounded by the Vaishnav poets, remained as alluring and mystifying as when she had first begun reading their work. Into this world she drew the boy poet deeper and deeper.
One afternoon, when the sky was dark with impending rain and the world below enveloped in a strange half light, Robi stood on the terrace, his heart soaring with the inexplicable, indescribable ecstasy that the sight of clouds and lengthening shadows always brought to it. As soon as the first drops fell, he ran inside and, flinging himself prone on the bed, wrote these lines on a slate: Gahan kusum kunja maajhhe / mridul madhur bansi baaje. The language employed was Braj bhasa, the language of the Vaishnav poets. The lyric appeared in that month’s Bharati under the title ‘Bhanu Singh er pada’. Following Chatterton, who had concealed his identity behind that of the nonexistent fifteenth-century poet, Rowley, Robi used the pseudonym Bhanu Singh. Why Bhanu Singh? Robi had chosen the name after careful consideration. The words Robi and Bhanu had the same meaning. They were two of the many names given to the sun. Robi was Bhanu and Bhanu, Robi.
From this first ‘Bhanu Singh er pada’ others sprang, one or two being written each month for the rest of the year. Saavan gagane ghor ghana ghata during the monsoon, Bajao re mohan baansi at the onset of winter and Satimir rajani sachakita sajani in spring. Twenty in all, they were compiled, set to music and published in a volume entitled Bhanu Singh er padavali. But that was many years later.
III
Kadambari had suffered several relapses of malaria but though the last one had struck over a year ago, the night after her mother-in-law’s death, she hadn’t made a complete recovery. Her lost appetite hadn’t returned and she was visibly thinner and paler. Her body, always slender but strong and supple as a bamboo stem, looked stiff and brittle as though a strong puff of wind could bring it down with a crash. She had sudden, strange fevers, accompanied by severe migraines, which felled her for a couple of days, then left as abruptly as they had come.
Subhankari and Soudamini worried about her. It wasn’t only her health. Her whole personality had undergone a sea change. She had been a warm, loving, generous girl till only the other day, eager to help and participate in everything that went on around her. But now she kept to herself and was cold and distant with everybody. She had even stopped making an appearance among the throng of women who sat with their bontis every morning, cutting vegetables for the day’s meals. One afternoon, Subhankari sent for her. ‘What’s wrong with you, Natun Bouma?’ she asked, looking straight into her eyes.
‘Why n-nothing,’ Kadambari replied, stammering a little.
‘You’ve been sick, I know. But that doesn’t mean you should lock yourself away in your rooms all day.’
‘I… I read books. Take care of Urmila and’
‘Urmila isn’t your child. And even if you love her as your own, which you do, it isn’t fitting that you devote all your time to her. There are other people in the house and you have other duties. To your father-in-law, for instance. You used to prepare his breakfast platter with so much devotion. Now you don’t care to do so—’
‘He’s hardly in Jorasanko these days, Didima,’ Kadambari murmured uneasily. ‘And when he comes… I don’t get to know.’
‘If you participated more in the running of the household you would know.’
Kadambari turned her face away, biting her lips and trying not to cry. Didn’t Didima know what was happening in the house? The things that were being said about her? The way she was being treated? Did Kadambari enjoy moping in her apartment day after day? But whenever she came upon a group of women, talking and laughing together, and tried to join them, they dropped their voices and turned bland, expressionless faces towards her. She was constantly overhearing whispered remarks like ‘barren palm tree’, ‘poor Natun Thakurpo’ and ‘nineteen years old and nothing to show for it. Not even a stillborn.’ Didima knew that she was being excluded; edged out of the mainstream. Still she was being so severe with her.
‘I know what you are thinking, Natun Bouma,’ Subhankari said in a softened voice. ‘I’m childless too. And a widow. What’s more, unlike you, I don’t belong here. I live on your father-in law’s charity. Haven’t I been through it all? Don’t I know how it feels? But, by avoiding everyone, you are making things worse for yourself. Ignore what you overhear and involve yourself in the life of the house as you used to. The whispers will die down.’
Kadambari stood rigid, her eyes on the floor.
‘Let this old woman give you some more
advice,’ Subhankari continued. ‘Recognize the fact that Swarna is using you. Stop being an ayah for her daughter. And… and another thing. Don’t involve yourself too much in Robi’s life.’
‘Robi!’ Kadambari raised startled eyes to the older woman’s. ‘But Robi isn’t even here.’
‘Why do you think he isn’t here?’
‘W-why?’
‘Because your second sister-in-law doesn’t approve of the way he hangs around you and has decided to remove him from your influence.’ Subhankari’s lips tightened with annoyance as she went on. ‘Mejo Bouma has convinced her husband that Robi is wasting his time writing silly, sentimental verse which won’t get him anywhere. And that you, instead of urging him to make something of his life, are encouraging him in this nonsense. It was she who made him talk to your father-in-law and persuade him to send Robi to them.’
Subhankari glanced at the girl’s wan face and shocked eyes and continued gently, ‘Leave Robi alone, Natun Bouma, and let his father and brothers decide what’s best for him. What I’m saying is for your own good.’
Kadambari couldn’t believe her ears. Robi had told her that Babamoshai was sending him to his second brother who would take him to England where he would study at the Bar. Kadambari had welcomed her father-in-law’s decision and got Robi ready for the journey. She had ordered suits for him and packed his trunk, putting in plenty of warm vests, socks and mufflers. And her parting advice to him had been that he was to work hard and be sure to pass his exams. But he was also to find time for his writing. And now she was being told that Robi had been sent away from Jorasanko because of her. To be kept as far as possible from her influence. The injustice of this overwhelmed her and her heart was wrenched with pain and humiliation.
‘I,’ Kadambari exclaimed, ‘I encourage Robi to waste his time! Does my sister-in-law know that what she calls “silly sentimental verse” has been applauded by the greatest poet of this age? Biharilal Babu has said, more than once, that Robi has a special gift and that a great future lies ahead of him.’
Before Subhankari could respond, she ran to her room and flung herself on the bed, weeping bitterly. And her thoughts raced with her flowing tears. Why was Jnanadanandini bent on taking everyone she loved away from her? She, herself, was God’s chosen one. He had endowed her with beauty, elegance, status, an adoring husband and beautiful children. She even had the unqualified devotion and admiration of Kadambari’s husband. And what did Kadambari have? Nothing but the love of poetry she shared with Robi and the little glow he brought into her heart by his affection and dependence on her. She thought of Christ’s parable of the rich man and the poor man. She had read it in one of the Susamachars in Jyotirindra’s collection. The rich man had gold, houses, lands and flocks of oxen. The poor man had nothing but a little lamb. And the rich man took the lamb away from the poor man. Jnanada had done just that. She had taken Robi, the only thing Kadambari had, away from her. And the amazing thing was that everyone in the house supported her. She, who had brooked no interference in her own life, who had flouted her mother-in-law and disobeyed the rules of the abarodh, who wasn’t even living here, was holding the strings of the household in her hands and taking all the decisions.
Subhankari loved her natun bouma and that was why she had warned her to stay away from Robi. But why now? When Robi wasn’t here? Kadambari puzzled over this and arrived at the answer. To prevent her from writing to Robi and keeping in touch. Subhankari knew that their exchange of letters would soon become another whip with which the women of the house would castigate her.
Kadambari wept for a long time, then feeling a niggling pain creeping towards her left temple, she rose hastily and wiped her eyes. She mustn’t let herself get overwrought. It would bring on a migraine. She should think coolly and calmly of what had happened and decide how to deal with it. Should she confide in her husband and ask for his advice? She mulled over the idea and abandoned it. He was too busy. Besides, he didn’t take her troubles seriously. He treated her exactly on par with Robi. They were two children, with unformed minds, who needed guidance and affection but not much else. And he wouldn’t be ready to hear anything against his Mejo Bouthan. In his eyes she was the embodiment of the perfect woman. Mature, strong and capable. All the qualities that Kadambari lacked. Kadambari’s mouth curled with contempt. How blind men were, she thought. How could her husband miss the underlying hardness in Jnanada’s character? Her controlling nature?
Well, if that was the kind of woman her husband wanted her to be, she would reorient herself. She would become hard and selfish. Instead of shying away from those who maligned her. she would join them, as Subhankari had advised, stick to them like leeches and spoil their fun. She would look them in the eye and dare them to gossip about her. And when Robi returned, she would flaunt their friendship in everyone’s face.
Meanwhile, the other character in the family drama, seventeenyear-old Robi was cooling his heels in a vast crumbling mansion of a palace, dating from Mughal times, called Sahibag. Satyendra had been elevated to the position of sessions judge of Ahmedabad and this palace, on the bank of the Sabarmati river, had been allotted to him as his residence. Jnanadanandini had orchestrated Robi’s removal from Jorasanko but hadn’t been in Sahibag to welcome him on his arrival. A few weeks earlier, she had sailed to England with her three children, Suren, Bibi and Chobi, aged five, three-and-a-half and two respectively. Not to mention another little one she was carrying in her womb. The plan was that her husband would follow with his brother, four months later, on the commencement of his furlough, and that this period would be utilized by Robi in picking up the rudiments of Western etiquette and dress and sprucing up his English.
Left completely alone all day, Robi spent his time reading the English books his brother gave him, rambling along the bank of the river and exploring every nook and corner of the palace. In the evening, the brothers sat on the huge terrace overlooking the Sabarmati, a slash of silver-grey dotted with water fowl, watched the sunset, and conversed in English. At night he slept in a hexagonal room on the second floor, totally alone. There was no one within hundreds of yards. Only some hornets in a nest on the wall kept him company.
While wandering through the ancient halls and galleries, terraces, balconies, kitchens and dungeons of Sahibag, Robi was assailed, at times, by strange sensations. He felt as though centuries had rolled away and he was caught in another timespan, another world. The palace became irradiated with light. Snatches of a bizarre, alien music came to his ears. He felt the presence of life around him. He heard breathing, laughter and lamentation, the clatter of horses’ hooves and the march of soldiers. Then, suddenly, all was as it had been. He was standing in some dim dusty passage or anteroom, gazing at the ceiling.
Robi often thought of his sister-in-law. Poor Natun Bouthan! How lonely she must be without him! As he was without her. He, at least, had something to look forward to. A sea voyage to England! His heart leaped up every time he thought of it. England! The land of Shakespeare and Milton! He would see with his eyes so much he saw in his mind already. Snowflakes dancing in the air, light and bright as feathers. Violets pushing their heads through damp mossy earth and suffusing the air with their sweet scent. He would walk through fields of daffodils and pick armfuls of bluebells and daisies. He would go black-berrying in summer and gather nuts from hedgerows in autumn. He would hear birdsong from shaggy chestnut trees and evensong from quaint old churches. And Natun Bouthan would sit, day after day, locked in her apartment with only Urmila for company.
Why was Natun Bouthan keeping herself aloof from the rest of the household so blatantly these days? And why was she so lonely and miserable so much of the time? It was true that she didn’t have children and that was a great sorrow to her. It was also true that Jyoti dada was too busy to give her more than a cursory attention. But these weren’t good enough reasons. Mejo Bouthan had gone through worse. Her husband had been away for years. And she hadn’t become a mother till the age of twenty-two. Natun
Bouthan was not even twenty. Why was she giving up hope so early?
The more Robi thought about it, the more convinced he was that these factors were not the cause of her dejection. Rather they provided an ostensible cover for it. Could she be one of those whose nature veered towards melancholia? There were a number of books on the human mind in Satyendra’s collection, and Robi was reading them with interest. Natun Bouthan seemed to display some of the classic symptoms of the depressive. When she was happy, she was deliriously happy; when sad, sunk in the depths of gloom. She had an alert mind and a keen intelligence and could speak fluently and coherently on most subjects. Biharilal Chakravarty and Akshay Choudhury thought the world of her and looked on her as the centre of their circle. They urged her to work for Bharati on a regular basis and help with the editing. But Natun Bouthan declined with a smile. She preferred to keep herself on the periphery. Why? Was it because she couldn’t trust herself to sustain anything she undertook for any length of time? Her frequent fevers and headaches, too, were pointers to her affliction. No one in the house, least of all herself, had an inkling of the truth.
Melancholic people, Robi had read, appeared to be like everyone else, but they created a reality of their own and lived in it. They laughed and wept, loved and mourned, and expected responses they never got, for the world they inhabited in mind was disconnected from the one they occupied in body. Was Natun Bouthan a depressive? No! No! Robi’s soul rebelled at the thought and he pushed it away. It was unbearable. He turned his musings in another direction.
Natun Bouthan loved poetry and had a sensitivity and understanding of it none of his acquaintance did. She would have made a fine poet but she refused to write. ‘I… I write poetry!’ She laughed away his suggestion every time he made it. ‘A mouse may as well attempt to build a mansion.’
‘Where’s the harm in trying? Nobody is going to put you in jail if it isn’t good.’
‘Na Baba.’
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