Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  Kadambari had made a comeback. She was accepted by the women of Jorasanko and the negative feelings she had inspired in them not so long ago had died away. Their mood had changed, become sympathetic. Kadambari was twenty-one years old and childless. So what? Many women were childless. Wasn’t Subhankari? And Tripura Sundari? As for the gossip about Robi – it was nonsense. Kadambari loved him as a brother and a son. Hadn’t she been a mother to Robi and Som ever since Sarada died? She was a dear girl, warm hearted and gifted, and an asset to the family.

  Poor Kadambari. She was one of those unfortunate beings born under a star that couldn’t leave her well alone. No sooner had she got herself together in body and spirit, and won back her place in the family, the chessboard, on which she was only a pawn, was overturned by a violent gust of wind and she was flung out, once more, into the dark, haunting space that was her natural habitat.

  On the last day of the year of Kadambari’s near annihilation and resurrection, Urmila fell down the iron staircase that led from Kadambari’s terrace to the garden below. And a few hours later… she died.

  Everyone thought that this harrowing, totally unforeseen circumstance would shatter Kadambari. That she would go mad with grief. But a strange unnatural calm descended on her. She didn’t weep or call out the child’s name. Nor did she take to her bed with fever and migraine. She stood at the top of the staircase, with the knot of hysterically wailing women, and looked on as the old gatekeeper Chandrabhan picked up the broken, mangled body from the thorny bushes into which it had rolled. Her face was as white as paper but not a muscle twitched and her great eyes were as hard and dry as stone.

  She wouldn’t touch the child. But she sat and watched Neepmayi and Prafullamayi getting her ready for the cremation. They washed the dusty, lacerated limbs and cracked skull, draped new clothes on her, and placed her on a tiny pallet, which, in the absence of her father, was lifted by her uncles and taken to the burning ghat. Kadambari sat still as a statue through it all. Even when Swarnakumari turned on her with burning eyes and cried, ‘I trusted you! I trusted you!’ she did not look at her or utter a word. She walked with the others to the archway that led to the baar mahal, then, when the funeral procession had moved out of her vision, she turned and went to her apartment. She gathered Urmila’s things together – clothes, dolls and toys – opening cupboards, looking under the bed and peeping behind the pots on the terrace. When everything was collected, she packed them in a neat bundle and sent for Bini. ‘I won’t need these anymore,’ she said in her everyday voice. ‘Keep some for your daughter and distribute the rest among the other servants’ children.’

  From the next day, she went about her daily routine as though nothing had happened. She joined the other women in their vegetable-chopping and paan-dressing sessions, ate with them, dusted her apartment, watered her plants and attended to Jyotirindra’s needs as meticulously as ever. And when he informed her that a telegram had been sent to Swarna’s husband apprising him of what had happened and asking him to return, she said quite composedly, ‘That’s good. Nau Thakurji and the children need him.’

  Two days later, she tried to take her own life.

  ‘Natun Bouthan!’ Barna came to Kadambari’s apartment, calling out to her. ‘Natun Bouthan! Where are you?’

  She went from room to room, even checked in the bathing room, then came out on the terrace. There was no one there. Suddenly, she got the shock of her life. Kadambari was standing at the top of the winding staircase, her hand on the rail. And, even as Barna watched aghast, she tensed her body and lifted her feet from the ground. She drew back once and was getting ready to spring again, when Barna shrieked and, rushing forward, clasped her from behind. Dragging her back, she turned her around. Kadambari’s sari was trailing in the dust and her hair blew wildly about her face. Her eyes gleamed with a queer light and there was a little smile on her lips.

  ‘What madness is this?’ Barna shook her roughly. ‘What are you trying to do?’

  Kadambari disengaged herself from Barna’s arms, picked her anchal from the ground and twisted her dishevelled hair into a knot.

  ‘What were you trying to do?” Barna asked again.

  ‘I-I…’ Kadambari stammered. She looked somewhat shamefaced, like a child caught stealing from her mother’s larder. ‘I wanted to see for myself how much the fall hurt Urmila. How… how much pain she suffered.’ Her voice was normal but the strange smile still played quietly about her lips.

  Barna’s blood curdled with an unknown fear. ‘Come inside.’ She pushed Kadambari into her bedroom and locked the door.

  A week later, Jyotirindranath took her away from Jorasanko to a house in Chandannagar.

  1878–1881

  I

  While in Sahibag, Robi had been fired with the ambition of writing a comprehensive history of English literature in Bangla, and had requested his brother to procure all the books he would require for the project. Satyendra, ever eager to encourage meaningful activity in his youngest sibling, had done so readily. Robi’s English was weak and the language of the books abstruse. But that did not daunt him. He read them slowly, painstakingly, with the aid of lexicons and dictionaries. In the process, his English improved to a remarkable extent and he became a voracious reader. He read everything he could lay his hands on, being especially drawn to European literature, of which Satyendra kept a large stock in his library. The poetry of Dante and Petrarch left Robi spellbound and he was haunted by their concept of love.

  Dante was only nine when he fell in love with Beatrice, the young writer effused in the family journal Bharati, but his love cannot be termed love in the ordinary sense. He never ‘told’ his love. Or even expressed it through the yearning in his eyes. Beatrice filled his universe. There was nothing else, no one else. Yet, all he could do was worship her from afar…

  Robi did not know it then but it was his first brush with Platonic love. The concept fired his imagination and seemed to resolve certain confusions and contradictions that he sensed within himself. A compound of emotions – vague, diffuse and perplexing – which he could neither understand nor identify took on a meaning, a dim, veiled yet definite meaning. Laura’s admission to Petrarch, on her ghostly visitation, sent runnels of ice water down his spine as he translated the words into Bangla: You have always had my love and will always have it. But while I lived in the flesh, I felt constrained to stifle my love and force you to suppress yours. That was the only way I knew to keep us both on the moral and ethical path. When you were most despondent, my struggle was hardest. But alas! Now I realize the futility of my endeavour.’

  Robi had heard these words before, not in exact measure or sequence, but in the language of silence. He understood and empathized.

  Debendranath turned over the pages of Bharati and went through the articles written by his youngest son. His face darkened as he read and a deep ridge appeared between his brows. He felt disturbed but he wasn’t quite sure why. Robi was nearly nineteen. His brothers had been married by that age and some had even become fathers. It was not unnatural, in the order of things, for him to get interested in the idea of love. But the love he was writing about was not the love that exists between man and wife. Or even between youth and maiden. There was a faint whiff of the illicit in it. How else could one explain the presence of words and phrases like struggle, stifle, suppress, moral and ethical, and worship from afar? Did the words ring a bell? Didn’t Satyendra hint at something of this nature when he insisted on taking Robi away from Jorasanko? And, now that he thought of it, someone, he’d forgotten who, had told him that when Robi was in Shilaidaha with Jyoti, four letters had gone in his name from Jorasanko. Who had written those letters? And why?

  Robi had been gone over a year now. But the reports Debendranath was receiving were far from satisfactory. He was writing a good deal, there was no doubt about that. Every few days an article, couched in the form of a letter, arrived in Jorasanko and was published in Bharati under the title Europe Prabasi’r Patra. They co
ntained lively accounts of the voyage, his first impressions of England, the social life of Brighton, the hybrid culture that the Indian community had evolved for itself, and many other interesting details. Debendranath read these letters but didn’t know to whom they were addressed. Lines like I felt so miserable and weakened in spirit, I went to my cabin and lay down… But enough of such unhappy thoughts! They will only make you weep… and, You can’t imagine the energy with which the memsahebs dance. Their mouths smile all the time and they keep their other weapons in readiness to hunt down all the eligible males within their purview. But do not fear for me. My heart is made of stone, so hard, that not a scratch will mar its surface clearly indicated that they were written to a woman. But which woman?

  He could find out if he wanted to. He was the master and had a right to know what went on in his house. But an innate delicacy, a distaste for unseemly probing into the lives of others, especially the women of the family, pulled him back. However, Debendranath decided to keep a closer watch on Robi. He had been sent out to England, at great expense, to complete his schooling, appear for the Bar examinations and return with a degree. Not to enjoy the social life of Brighton and Tunbridge Wells. From what he had heard so far, history was repeating itself in England exactly as it had in Kolkata. Robi was having a good time but making no headway in his education. What was worse, it seemed to Debendranath, he was picking up alien ideas and learning to denigrate his own culture. In another of his articles Paribarik Dasatwa, he had lashed out at the unquestioning reverence and blind obedience that the elders of an Indian family demand from younger members. Unfortunately, he had written, there isn’t just one elder but a whole hierarchy of them. Thus, a moribund race, oppressed through infancy, childhood and youth, is being created. Debendranath made up his mind. He would give the experiment another six months, then recall his son from the land of the firingees.

  After Robi’s first arrival in Brighton, Satyendranath had enrolled him in a public school. But Jnanadanandini, being of a gregarious disposition, and overjoyed at the reunion with her husband and brother-in-law, organized so many picnics, outings and excursions that very little time was left for studies. Satyendra remonstrated with his wife but she had a ready answer. Education, she maintained stoutly, was not about poring over tomes by candlelight. It was about seeing the world and absorbing its details, being exposed to different languages and cultures, different forms of flora and fauna. ‘Robi is new to England,’ she said. ‘Let him observe the country and understand it first. There’ll be plenty of time for book learning, later.’

  Satyendra was not convinced. Babamoshai had sent Robi to England for a specific purpose. But the days were passing swiftly and the boy was losing sight of his goal. He shared his misgivings with his barrister friend, Taraknath Palit, and the two agreed that what Robi needed was removal from his sister-inlaw’s overprotection. He should learn to take responsibility for himself. Taraknath offered to take him to London and put him under a tutor who coached boys in Latin, a knowledge of which was essential for a career in law. He would find him lodgings in Kensington near the tutor’s house and keep an eye on him.

  The plan, as Satyendra realized in hindsight, was a misguided one. Robi needed coaching in all subjects, not only in Latin. Besides, being totally ignorant of the language, he could not compete with the other boys whose Latin was fairly advanced. Taraknath Palit realized the futility of the arrangement quite quickly and passed him into the hands of another tutor, a man by the name of Barker, who had opened a residential school for boys in his own home, to ready them for the final examination. By far a better idea, this might have worked. But Jnanada upset the applecart once again. She had moved from Brighton and rented a cottage in Torquay. Devonshire was a beautiful county. Wasn’t it fair that Robi have a taste of it?

  That was that. Robi left damp, foggy London for the bright sunshine and clear skies of Devon. He roamed the gentle hills and flower-strewn meadows all day with Suren and Bibi, explored the pine forests and revelled in the beauty of the sapphire-blue sea. And, in the evenings, they sat by the fire, ate oranges and hot chestnuts and Robi regaled the children with stories from the Arabian Nights and Grimms Fairy Tales and read out passages from Alice in Wonderland, Helen’s Babies, Don Quixote and Pilgrim’s Progress. Needless to say, the drab miserable days in the school room and the long, cold lonely nights in Mrs Barker’s attic were quite forgotten.

  Not for long, however. An alarmed Satyendra realized that nearly a year had gone by. His furlough would be ending in six months and Robi hadn’t settled down to anything yet. Babamoshai would be furious. He hadn’t been very keen on sending the boy to England but had yielded on Satyendra’s insistence. What a lot of time had been lost and so much money wasted! He had to do something and do it quickly. Satyendra decided not to fall back on Taraknath Palit this time. Taking Robi with him to London, he admitted him in the English literature course of University College. He also found lodgings for him with an elderly couple. They had six children of their own but they agreed to accommodate Robi. Satyendra liked what he saw. Dr Scott had sharp, blue eyes, a square beard and the look of a martinet. His wife was plump and smiling and reminded him of his own mother. Between the two, Satyendra felt, Robi would get the discipline and the maternal love he needed. And the six children would be good company for him. Well pleased with himself, Satyendra left Robi in London and went back to Torquay.

  He was not mistaken. The Scotts welcomed Robi and made him feel part of the family. And Robi, whose mind and spirit tended to clamp up in a cold, loveless environment, responded to their warmth and affection as a tender plant does to the sunshine. He settled down to his studies, for the first time, and started performing well. He also got seriously drawn towards Western music. The Scott girls played the piano and sang every evening. Robi, joining them with his clear, loud baritone, picked up a number of Scottish and Irish airs. He especially delighted in singing Tom Moore’s Irish melodies, Last rose of summer and The young May moon is beaming, love / The glowworm’s lamp is gleaming, love. The children studied together, sang and played pranks. The girls conducted séances which Mrs Scott was fearful of and discouraged but which were carried on, in secret, all the same. All in all, Robi’s residence with this English family was a complete success.

  Then, out of the blue, a message came to Dr Scott from Satyendranath. His father wanted Robi to return. He was to travel back to India with his brother and sister-in-law. A ticket had been bought for him on a ship called SS Oxus, run by the Messageries Maritime Company, and they were to leave in a fortnight.

  Jyotirindranath and Kadambari returned from Chandannagar to find a number of changes. Swarnakumari had left with her family and was living in a rented house in Kashiabagan. Janakinath had come back to India, without getting his degree. His plan was to make a short stay, support his wife through the first harrowing months of their daughter’s death, then return to England. But Swarna would not let him go back. And she wouldn’t stay in Jorasanko either.

  Swarna’s apartment was now occupied by Jnanadanandini. Within it she had created a lifestyle as distinct from the rest of the household as if a physical line was drawn between them. Jnanada ate at a dining table off English plate and silver. Her children were dressed like English children, studied in St. Xavier’s and Loreto Convent, and spoke to one another in English and French. Rama, the boy from Surat who had travelled with them to England, had accompanied her to Kolkata. He wore shoes and trousers, shocking the other servants. But the biggest disturbance was created by Jnanada’s fluffy white Pekinese, Nicois, who ran all over the house, even entered the kitchens and slept at the foot of Bibi’s bed at night. Robi, Kadambari saw, had returned with them and had ensconced himself in his old room.

  Though living totally on her own terms, Jnanadanandini wasn’t happy in Jorasanko. It wasn’t only that the mutterings of the other women, criticizing her conduct, reached her ears. She could and did dismiss them with the pride and contempt that were part of her nature.
What appalled her was their backwardness, the depths of ignorance in which they wallowed. They were like hens locked in a single coop and were constantly pecking at and scratching one another. Jnanada had travelled extensively and seen how civilized people lived. She wanted to share her experiences with her sisters-in-law and persuade them to change their ways. She had all the force and passion of the new convert and was fired with a zeal to reform others. She tried talking to Sukumari and Barna, induce them to emulate her example, but received a rude rebuff. If every woman was like her, they retorted, the whole idea of a joint family would disintegrate. Jnanada felt hurt and humiliated. She had wanted to give the women of her family a better, more meaningful life. And, instead of thanking her, they had let loose a volley of barbs.

  One afternoon, she came to Kadambari’s room to find her sitting on her bed, embroidering an asan, a mat, which she planned to gift to her favourite poet Biharilal Chakravarty on his birthday. Jyotirindra sat hunched at a table by the window, poring over his new play Manmoyi. Jnanada dropped down beside her sister-in-law, observed her workmanship for a few minutes, then sighed and said, ‘Why do you waste your time in such useless work, Natun Bou? There are so many other worthwhile things to do in life.’

  Kadambari stiffened. Jnanada’s presence always made her want to shy away like a colt. But she collected herself and asked softly, ‘Such as?’

  ‘The list is so long I can’t even begin enumerating them,’ Jnanada said loftily. ‘The least you can do is read the newspaper. Do you have any idea of what is going on in our country?’

  As a matter of fact, Kadambari had quite a good idea. She was constantly hearing her husband and his friends discussing the merits and demerits of the rulers, analysing their actions and motives, and expressing their own hopes and fears for the future. But she had no intention of taking a defensive position, of putting herself in the dock and allowing her sister-in-law to fire questions at her. She gave her a smile and bent over her work with renewed concentration.