Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  She wouldn’t write but she made sure he wrote every day. And, just before his departure, she had called him to her room and said gravely, ‘Remember Biharilal babu’s words, Robi: I see before me the greatest poet of the coming century, and let that be your talisman. I won’t be with you for a long time. You must make the urge to write come from within. No matter what happens. Even if you have to stay up all night – you mustn’t give up writing poetry. Promise me you won’t.’

  He had kept his word. He had written a number of lyrics and set some of them to music. Neerab rajani dekho magna jochhonai (Behold the silent night submerged in moonlight) was one. He had composed it after watching a huge full moon rise above the Sabarmati from the terrace of Sahibag. And another, a sweet little love song, Boli o aamaar golap bala / tolo mukhani (O my rose maiden / lift your face to mine) with its risqué ending… Sakhi ekti chumban dao / gopone ekti chumban chao (Give me a kiss, sweet friend / ask for a kiss in stealth). He had blushed while writing these lines and his ears had burned with embarrassment. Unconscious of the fact that he had entered puberty and that his senses had awakened to the needs of a grown man, he couldn’t imagine why he had written them. More so because the face of his rose maiden – plump, fair and dimpled with blue eyes and golden curls – was being shadowed by another. A long, pale face with haunting eyes…

  Satyendra was to wonder, in later years, what possessed him to send his twenty-seven-year-old wife alone, with three children, to a land of which she knew nothing and of whose language she had but a rudimentary knowledge. He had explained to Jnanada that it would be impossible for her to travel with him in September when his furlough began. She would be seven months pregnant and the voyage would pose an enormous risk. And if, God forbid, the labour came on early, she might even deliver at sea. It was far better to sail now. Some friends of his were catching the same boat and would keep an eye on her. And Rama, their trusted Surati servant, would take care of the children. Jnanada, showing exemplary courage, had agreed. But the voyage was a terrible affliction for her. From the moment the liner pulled away from the dock, she lay gasping in her cabin, pallid and miserable, retching helplessly. Racked by the sickening roll of the ship, she strapped herself to the bunk, eyes shut, ears filled with the incessant thudding of the waves against the porthole.

  But her children enjoyed the voyage. Bibi and Suren fought and played all day and peeped into the kitchens and state rooms to see what went on there. They even entered that Englishman’s holy of holies – the smoking room – to be driven out by a red-faced colonel in uniform and a fierce moustache. They walked hand in hand along the deck and leaned over the rails, looking out for dolphins and flying fish. And, though they didn’t care for the food – it was too bland and watery – they looked forward to the hot muffins that were always served for tea.

  When the ship docked at Southampton, Satyendra’s uncle, Jnanendramohan Tagore, came to receive them. ‘What has Satyendra done?’ he asked Jnanadanandini in an outraged voice. ‘How could he send you alone in your condition with three young children!’ Jnanendramohan was Prasanna Kumar Tagore’s son and India’s first barrister. He had married a Christian girl, the famous Reverend Krishnamohan Bandopadhyay’s daughter, which had led his father to disinherit him and forced him to make England his permanent home. He and his wife were very kind to Jnanada but she had too independent a spirit to accept another’s hospitality for any length of time. She moved to a rented house within a few weeks of her arrival but, dissatisfied with its arrangements, moved again. After several moves, she found a house to her taste in Brighton where Satyendra and Robi joined them in the autumn. But the danger to the unborn child that Satyendranath had feared, that which had made him send his wife ahead of him, could not be averted. Jnanada had a miscarriage and lost her baby. Worse followed. A few months after Satyendra’s arrival, little Chobi died of a mysterious illness. Jnanada believed it was because the servant Rama made him walk too fast. That was why he was so breathless all the time. But the doctors could give no reason. He was buried in a tiny grave in London, next to his great-grandfather Dwarkanath Tagore.

  When the news of the double tragedy reached Jorasanko, a roll of lamentation rose from the abarodh mixed with severe censure. ‘Something like this was bound to happen,’ the older women declared indignantly. ‘Who has ever heard of a delicately reared female, of high family, travelling across the Black Water! That too without her husband! Arrogance and disregard of the opinions of elders carries with it its own scourge.’

  But the news affected Kadambari in a way no one had imagined possible. Remembering her fury and resentment at her sister-in-law for taking Robi away, she blamed herself for what had happened. She had wished Jnanada ill and God had heard her voice and sent her such a cruel punishment. This thought tormented her day and night and she took to her bed, shivering with fever. She tossed and turned on the sheets, dreaming the strangest of dreams. Once, she saw a plump, white arm with jingling bangles hurl something out of the window. It went bumping down the revolving stairs that led from her terrace to the garden below. She ran after it and picked it up. It was a broken, mangled doll. It was her Kusum Kumari. She hugged it to her bosom and wept, ‘Kusum! My Kusum!’ she cried. ‘How could she treat you so?’ Then her eyes went beyond the doll to something else, someone else, lying on the ground. She leaned over and tried to peer into the still, white face. It was a woman’s face but she didn’t know whose it was. A fine, gossamer veil covered it. All she could see were the faint outlines of a nose, cheeks and chin. She put out her hand and pulled back the veil. And now her heart started pounding so fiercely she felt it would burst out of her chest. For she recognized the face. It was her own.

  ‘I’m not dead! I’m not dead!’ she screamed in her delirium. A maid, sitting at her bedside, leaned over and asked, ‘What is it, Natun Bou rani? Do you want some water?’ A terrible spasm passed over Kadambari and she awoke, sweating profusely. Her limbs felt weightless as though, if she wished, she could fly out of the window into the hot blue sky. ‘Why was I lying on the ground, Bini?’ she asked, her eyes stark and staring, ‘It was cold. Horribly cold.’

  ‘Lying on the ground! What are you saying, Natun Bou rani? You’re lying on your bed and I’m sitting beside you. I’ve been here all morning.’ Bini took the wet cloth from Kadambari’s forehead and replaced it with another. It felt damp, cool and sweet. Relief washed over her in waves. She wasn’t dead. It was only a dream.

  But the moment she fell asleep again, other dreams came crowding upon her. She was walking down a street dense with fog. It was bitterly cold and her hands and feet were numb. Passing a house she saw a face at a window; a child’s face, fair and round, with a mop of curly black hair. The window had glass panes patterned with hoar frost. As she stood and watched, the child’s breath rose like a mist and melted the frost so that the pattern changed and formed, again and again, as though seen through a kaleidoscope. Then, suddenly, the face wasn’t at the window. It was in a hollow in the ground. A woman was standing by, looking into the staring eyes. And slowly, step by step, she walked into the open grave and lay down by the child. Her hair was sprayed out all over her face and breast, and long, black strands spilled out over the brown earth. ‘I’m dead,’ Kadambari muttered softly, for she and the woman were one, ‘I’m dead.’ But this time the thought did not frighten her…

  Seven days and seven nights Kadambari lay on her bed, dreaming her strange dreams and shivering and sweating by turns. Her husband, working feverishly at the jute business he had embarked upon in collaboration with his brother-inlaw, came into the room for a few minutes each morning, gave instructions to the maid, and left in a hurry. Janakinath was in England and the entire responsibility had fallen on Jyotirindra. He was up to his neck in bills and payments, slips, tokens and vouchers. The hundred and one problems that plagued the jute merchant – collection of stocks, release of stocks, storage, quality control and price regulation – were his. But he had no knowledge of jute and no experien
ce of business. The only thing that went in his favour was that he was Dwarkanath Tagore’s grandson and was recognized and respected in the jute world as such.

  Unable to give his wife the time and attention she needed, he made an arrangement with Dr Neelmadhav Haldar. He was to check on her once a day and monitor her condition. The good doctor did so. He came every morning, examined his patient painstakingly and changed the medicines every two or three days. But her condition remained exactly as it was.

  One day, Debendranath sent for his fifth son. ‘What sort of husband are you?’ he asked sternly. ‘Natun Bouma has been ill for over a week. And you have done nothing about it.’

  ‘I sent for Dr Haldar,’ Jyotirindra exclaimed, taken aback by his father’s accusation. ‘He’s treating her.’

  ‘Hmph!’ Debendranath grunted. ‘And is the treatment working? What she needs is to get away from this house. Take her to our garden estate of Champdani. Or Palta. And give her some time and attention. She’s highly strung and this tragedy has hit her hard.’

  Jyotirindra was appalled by his father’s command. ‘I don’t have the time, Babamoshai,’ he said. ‘I’ve just started a new business. How can I leave it and go off to Palta?’

  ‘You may not want to leave your business,’ Debendranath answered drily, ‘but it will surely leave you. Sooner than later. You dabble in too many projects, Jyoti. Stick to one and make it work.’

  Jyotirindra’s face darkened with anger and humiliation. Babamoshai treats me like a child, he thought indignantly. He forgets that I’m nearly thirty years old.

  Debendranath noticed the expression on his son’s face but ignored it. ‘I don’t like what I hear of Natun Bouma’s condition,’ he said solemnly. ‘Her sickness, I suspect, is more of the mind than the body. You’d better be careful. I don’t want anything untoward to happen in this house.’

  Jyotirindra fumed at his father’s rebuke but dared not disobey him. As soon as Kadambari was well enough to travel, he took her to Palta. Her personal maid Bini accompanied her and so did Urmila and her ayah. Jyotirindra wasn’t sure of what his father meant when he said that Kadambari’s illness was more of the mind than the body. If that was true, wouldn’t the doctor have known? Would he have diagnosed a simple relapse of malaria? And what did Babamoshai mean when he said, I don’t want anything untoward to happen in this house. What did he fear? Another death? But Kadambari wasn’t ill enough to die.

  As a matter of fact, the rejuvenating air of Palta worked wonders for her health and spirits. The dark shadows under her eyes disappeared and her skin turned smooth and glossy. She grew quite brown, romping and playing with Urmila in the garden all day and, every evening, they went sailing over the Ganga in the family bajra – a luxury boat with a square deck surrounded by a railing. Kadambari loved these outings which began in the early evening and ended, hours later, when the moon was high in the heavens. As dusk came creeping on the river, wiping away the last luminous streaks from the sky, and the banks grew dim, peace such as she had never known, ever since she had come as a bride to Jorasanko, descended on her soul. The boat floated like a dream. She sat on the deck, her back resting against the railing, Urmila on her lap, and let the sights and sounds wash over her. The melting of the gold from the west, the dance of the moon between masses of monsoon cloud, the splash of water, the tinkle of bells from a distant temple and the call of the muezzin, eerie and alien to the ear – she imbibed it all.

  Jyotirindra accompanied her most of the time. He played the violin and sang, filling her heart with the enchantment and romance she craved. But his work took him to Kolkata frequently. Once a week, he left early in the morning and returned at night two or three days later. Kadambari never complained but he felt uneasy about leaving her alone in a great, empty house with only servants to look after her and Urmila. His father’s words had shaken him. But what was he to do? He could write his plays sitting here, in Palta, but he couldn’t conduct his business from here. The jute trade wasn’t going well at all. The middlemen were taking advantage of his inexperience and, teaming up with his workers, were robbing him right and left. He needed to learn a lot more about the business and devote much more time to it. But he was pulled apart by other considerations. If only Robi wasn’t in England! Robi was such good company for his wife. They were almost the same age and had many interests in common. With Robi to take care of her and keep her happy, he could have done his work in peace.

  One night, Jyotirindranath asked his wife, ‘Do you feel well enough to return to Kolkata?’

  ‘Return!’ Kadambari cried out, aghast. ‘So soon?’

  ‘We’ve been away for four and a half months. When I stay here, my work suffers. And when I’m away, I worry about you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Kadambari said quietly.

  ‘How can I not worry? This estate is so secluded and so far from Kolkata. What if something were to happen to you in my absence? Or to Urmila? What would you do?’

  Kadambari’s face clouded. She had received a letter from Robi last week saying that Satyendra’s furlough was coming to an end in three months after which he would return to India with his family. He would proceed to Surat where his new posting awaited him, but Mejo Bouthan would go straight to Jorasanko. Her children were old enough to be put in school and what place was better for their education than Kolkata? Robi would stay on in England. He had been enrolled in University College, London, and found accommodation with a very nice family.

  Kadambari scanned her husband’s countenance sharply. Did his desire to return to Jorasanko have anything to do with Jnanadanandini’s plans? But the face raised to hers didn’t betray a trace of guilt. And Kadambari saw, for the first time, that it had aged. The brilliantly chiselled features had dimmed. The eyes looked tired and there was a fine network of lines at the corners. Her heart grew heavy. He was working too hard and was under severe strain. And instead of being a support to him she, his wife, was adding to his troubles. She felt ashamed of her thoughts. Even if Jnanadanandini came to Kolkata, it would not be for another four or five months. Why, then, was she doubting her husband’s intentions? She was mean, petty. Never again, she made a vow. Never again shall I allow one negative thought to cross my mind. I shall trust my husband implicitly. I shall control my emotions and strengthen myself. I shan’t be a burden to him anymore.

  ‘Very well,’ she said with a smile, ‘we’ll go back.’

  ‘I know you are happy here,’ Jyotirindra said, his face worried, preoccupied. ‘And your health has improved. But I’m helpless. If I’m forced to wind up the business, Babamoshai’s prediction will come true. I can’t allow that to happen.’

  ‘Of course you can’t.’

  Back in Jorasanko, Kadambari threw herself into the life of the household. She mingled freely with her sisters-in-law and joined them in their daily activities. They were surprised at first, even somewhat miffed at losing their primary source of gossip. But, gradually, they got used to her presence among them and started welcoming it. Especially when she took up a new hobby. Cooking. The kitchens of the mansion churned out the essentials of each meal – rice, dal, vegetables and fish curry – in vast quantities and sent it up to each apartment, set out on thalas with covering lids. Most of the women augmented what came with a few tasty titbits, cooked over a bucket of coal in their own rooms. Kadambari did so too. But in her case it developed into a fine art. She was astonishingly creative in her cooking and thought up the most unusual recipes. Chanori, a dish of gram and potatoes; Papourhi, pieces of chickpea sheets in a thick, spicy sauce; sweet luchis with a jackfruit filling; fried bamboo sprouts; papaya fritters and pineapple and potato stew. Who had ever heard of these dishes? But they were so delicious, they became immensely popular. They were picked up by the others and became part of the repertoire of recipes that belonged to the Tagores of Jorasanko.

  Soon, another of Kadambari’s talents was discovered. The tradition of home theatricals in the house of Jorasanko had depended heavily, all
these years, on the young boys of the family, for they took the female parts. But now there was a dearth of boys with the histrionic and musical talents required to play the demanding female roles of Jyotirindra’s plays. Hearing him regret this one day, Kadambari said suddenly, ‘Why don’t you take women?’

  Women! Jyotirindra sat up. ‘You mean the women of the house?’ he asked sharply. ‘Will they agree? Will you?’

  ‘I might.’ She smiled sweetly at her husband. ‘If you ask me to. The others might too.’

  Jyotirindra rose immediately and made his way to the women’s wing. Calling a meeting of his sisters and sisters-in-law, he put Kadambari’s suggestion before them. But their response was disappointing. They demurred, giggled self-consciously, and expressed doubts about what Babamoshai would say. Neepmayi, who was an excellent singer, being the only one of Debendranath’s daughters-in-law to have received formal training from an ustad, was ready to sing from behind a curtain but would not act with men – even if they were her own brothers-in-law. Jyotirindra used all his powers of persuasion but drew a blank. Then Swarnakumari had an idea. She would write a musical with an all-female cast. If the women of the family could be induced to step on to the stage once, they would overcome their misgivings and eventually agree to act with the men.

  Basanta Utsav was written within a week and performed that very winter. Conquering her diffidence and self-doubt with all the determination she could muster, Kadambari played the role of Lila, astonishing her audience not only with her acting skills but with her singing. Seeing her on the stage, her hair flowing down her back and her big dark eyes suffused with emotion, and hearing her sing the tragic love song Chandra shunya, taaraa shunya, meghandha nishithe cheye (Gazing on a moonless, starless, cloud-blinded dark night) in the haunting strains of Bageshri, her audience was dumbstruck. ‘Who knew she had it in her!’ they said in one voice.