Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  But Jnanada would not take the hint. ‘Apart from the waste of time,’ she went on blithely, ‘fine embroidery of the kind you are doing is bad for the eyes. You haven’t been well. You need fresh air and physical exercise to perk you up.’ Addressing Jyotirindra, she said, ‘You should take her for drives in the park. Why don’t you?’

  ‘I’m busy in the evenings,’ Jyotirindra muttered without turning his head. ‘But she can go with Robi if she wishes.’

  Jnanada’s delicate brows came together. ‘Why do you always make Robi do everything for you?’ she exclaimed. Her voice was sharp but her eyes were smiling. ‘You are a very bad husband, Natun.’

  Now Jyotirindra turned and faced her. His spectacles gleamed with suppressed mirth. As though with a life of their own. ‘Not a bad husband,’ he corrected her, ‘only a busy one.’

  Both burst out laughing. Kadambari stared. She couldn’t understand what there was to laugh at in what her husband had said. Did the two have a secret language, she thought in amazement, a code of their own?

  Then she did a strange thing. Musing on it later, she couldn’t imagine what made her think of it. Putting a hand under her pillow, she brought out a couple of watercolours done on plain drawing paper. ‘Robi gave these to me,’ she said, pushing them towards her sister-in-law. ‘He painted them himself.’

  One was of an old church, buried in trees, and the other of a couple galloping across a wide meadow on dappled horses. Jnanada took them in her hands and examined them closely. She recognized the church. They had seen it in a village called Abbotsmead, just outside Torquay, where they had stopped for cream teas on one of their outings. As for the other, she didn’t recognize the people but the landscape was familiar. They were the downs of Devon.

  Jnanada frowned. When did Robi paint these pictures? And why hadn’t he shown them to her?

  ‘I don’t care to sit in a carriage and be driven sedately from one part of the maidan to another. What I’d really like to do is to ride a horse myself.’ Kadambari’s voice broke into her thoughts, and Jnanada looked up, startled. So did Jyotirindra. Kadambari’s eyes shone as she went on. ‘I want to gallop across the maidan on a white Arab mare. Like this woman.’ She pointed to the picture. ‘And like… like… what’s her name? Ah! Yes. Like Golapsundari.’ Two pairs of shocked eyes stared at her. She looked from one to the other. ‘Why… why do you look at me like that?’ she asked wonderingly. ‘Have I said something I shouldn’t have?’

  Golapsundari was the name of a young actress who had recently created waves in the theatre world. She came from a line of common prostitutes but her singing, dancing and histrionic powers were such that she had caught the eye of the great actor Ardhendusekhar Mustafiwho had brought her out of her brothel in Sonagachhi and enrolled her among the staff of the National Theatre. She was exceptionally gifted, deemed to be the best actress after Binodini and, in the latter’s absence, was the National’s leading lady. The amazing thing about her was that she could adapt herself to any character, from a dancing girl’s to a sannyasini’s. She had very little education, could barely read and write, but she had an astonishing verbal memory and hardly required any rehearsals. Thus, she was a director’s dream of an understudy for the heroine and was often seen performing the lead role.

  A couple of months ago, Jyotirindra had seen Golapsundari playing the character of Raziya Sultana in the National. He had marvelled at the tragic dignity with which she had executed the complex role and was particularly impressed with the scene in which she led her soldiers to battle, galloping across the stage on a white horse, emitting a shrill battle cry. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen a horse actually brought on to the stage,’ he had told Kadambari that night. He had given a blow-by-blow account of the play and ended with the words, ‘Sometimes I feel Golapsundari is even better than Binodini.’

  ‘What does she look like?’ Kadambari had asked curiously. Jyotirindra had considered the question for a minute. Pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, he had looked thoughtfully at his wife and said in a puzzled voice, ‘Why! Coming to think of it, she looks a bit like you.’

  ‘Like me!’ Kadambari had cried out incredulously. ‘How?’

  ‘Well… she’s tall and slim. With big eyes and long black hair. The expression, of course, is completely different. She’s very vivacious.’ He had thought for a moment and added, ‘Her face is like rubber. It registers a sweep of emotions within the span of a few minutes.’

  ‘Do you know her?’ Kadambari had thrown her husband a searching glance.

  ‘A little.’ He had changed the subject abruptly.

  Now she repeated her question. ‘Have I said something I shouldn’t have?’

  ‘N-no…’ Jyotirindra was still in a state of shock. He felt acutely uncomfortable. But Jnanada had collected herself. ‘You want to ride a horse?’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘It’s easier said than done, Natun Bou.’

  ‘Why?’ Kadambari raised large innocent eyes to her sister-inlaw’s face. ‘Men ride all the time. And women too.’ She pointed to the woman in the painting.

  ‘Western women,’ Jnanada began but Kadambari cut her short.

  ‘That’s not true. Many Indian women ride. I’ve heard that the princesses of Rajputana are taught riding from childhood. And so are the women from the royal families of the Deccan.’

  ‘You’re talking of royalty, not ordinary women like us.’

  ‘If Golapsundari can—’

  ‘She took riding lessons,’ Jyotirindra offered.

  ‘I will too.’

  ‘In a sari?’ Jnanada laughed again.

  ‘No. I’ll wear riding gear.’

  Jnanada and Jyotirindranath exchanged glances. The former’s eyes were amused, the latter’s bewildered.

  ‘Can you do it?’ Jnanada challenged Kadambari. ‘Living here in Jorasanko?’

  ‘Why not? If my husband permits it, who can stop me?’ Turning to Jyotirindra, she asked him directly, ‘Do you have any objection?’

  ‘N-no, I…I’ Jyotirindra stammered.

  ‘You’ve always said you liked women who had the courage to break the shackles of the abarodh. Why do you hesitate now?’

  Before Jyotirindra could answer, Jnanada said sharply, ‘Breaking the shackles of the abarodh is all very well. But there are limits. What you propose to do is appalling. What will people say?’ Her face had darkened with anger and her voice was grim. Kadambari’s mouth curled with amusement. The look wasn’t lost on Jnanada. Nor were its implications. It made her blood boil. ‘You want to model yourself on an actress!’ she exclaimed spitefully. ‘A common prostitute!’

  ‘Golapsundari is not a prostitute anymore,’ Kadambari said quietly. ‘She’s an artist of high repute. She has more talents than you or I can even dream of. Everyone admires her, including your brother-in-law.’

  Jnanadanandini turned red with fury. She looked at Jyotirindra, expecting him to deny the accusation and administer a rude rebuff to his errant wife. But he said nothing. His face was pale but his ears blazed with embarrassment.

  ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life!’ Jnanada rose from the bed and flounced out of the room.

  For the first time in her twenty-one years, Kadambari took a decision and stuck to it. Within a couple of months of declaring that she would take up riding, she was seen galloping across the park on a snowy Arab mare, her husband beside her on a coal-black steed. She hadn’t carried out her threat of wearing breeches. She wore a sari and rode side-saddle. But she was a superb rider. Her bearing was erect, her grip on the reins firm but light. ‘Come! Race me to that tree,’ she called out to Jyotirindra. Then, touching the heel of her riding boot lightly to the mare’s flank, she shot ahead of him, swift as an arrow. Her face was wild and free and her laughter echoed across the wide expanse.

  II

  Robi’s second attempt to study at the Bar proved even more abortive than his first for, this time, he didn’t even reach England…

  After his ret
urn to Jorasanko with his brother and sister-inlaw, Robi remained morose and depressed for several months. He was a grown man now, nearly twenty, and he hadn’t done anything with his life except write some poetry which, in his own estimation, was mediocre. Some of it had been anthologized and published in a volume entitled Banaphool by his brother Somendra, who had saved his allowance for months and used it for the purpose. Som was very proud of Robi and of the volume and got everybody he could lay his hands on to read it. This saddened Robi more than it pleased him. For, try as he would, he couldn’t respond to Som with equal love. This inability lay like a heavy weight on his chest.

  Somendra had grown from a healthy chubby-cheeked boy to a tall, stout and handsome man. He had inherited his family’s love of literature and music, was fond of reciting poetry, and had a fine singing voice. To outsiders he looked and behaved as normally as the next person. But his father’s discerning eye had seen traces of imbalance in him from the time he was a child. As he grew older, they became more pronounced and gradually the rest of the family came to see them as well.

  Unlike Birendra, Som was neither aggressive nor violent. His malady took the form of excessive love. He was too warm, too friendly, too fond of physical contact. He loved everybody and wanted to show his love but the trouble was, he didn’t know where to draw the line. He took everyone, even strangers by the hand, embraced them warmly and insisted on feeding them sweets, a stock of which he always kept in his pockets. He was a compulsive eater himself and couldn’t understand why anybody would refuse good food. Sometimes his insistence became acutely embarrassing but he was blissfully unaware of it. He adored dogs, especially stray ones, and the mangier and more flea-ridden they were, the more he cuddled them. He fed them from his own thala, let them sleep in his bed and kissed and caressed them as other people did babies.

  These idiosyncrasies could hardly be termed disorders of the mind. There were many people like him. They led normal lives, married and had children but Debendranath was taking no chances. He had made a terrible mistake by getting Birendra married and he wouldn’t repeat it. Neither would he allow Som to inherit any of his property. He shared his thoughts with his lawyer, Barrister Evans, who suggested that he appeal to the high court for a change in the list of heirs. Since the property was ancestral, this could only be done through a legal certificate of insanity issued by the court. Debendra had taken the barrister’s advice and, on the basis of a medical report given by a specialist in mental ailments named Dr Paine, the high court of Kolkata had declared Somendranath Tagore insane and cut his name out of the succession. He would be allowed to occupy one room of the mansion as long as he lived. And he would receive an allowance of twenty rupees a month.

  Everyone knew of this development except Somendranath. Som dada, Robi thought sadly, was oblivious of what was going on and if at all something came to his ears, he only displayed a mild curiosity and wonder. One day, he took Robi aside and whispered urgently, ‘I hear Mejo Bouthan is looking for a bride for you, Robi! But shouldn’t she have thought of me first? I’m older than you.’ He had waited for a response, then grinned sheepishly, ‘Perhaps she’s forgotten. Will you remind her, Robi?’

  Poor Som dada! Every time Robi thought of his handsome, generous, large-hearted older brother, his own heart felt oppressed and heavy. He longed to get out of Jorasanko and its politics. There were too many people here poking and jabbing at one another. Ever since his return, everyone in the house was looking askance at him, trying to make him feel guilty. ‘You’ve wasted so much of your father’s money,’ their eyes said reprovingly, ‘and come back without achieving anything.’ He knew that it was so. But was it his fault?

  He had never felt so lonely and dejected in this house as he did now. More so because everyone he was close to had left. Swarnakumari and Jnanada were living in rented accommodations in Kashiabagan and Park Street. Although he stood somewhat in awe of his famous sister, he loved her children and missed their presence. But much, much worse, was Jnanadanandini’s defection. She had settled down so well in Jorasanko. She had created for herself a lifestyle totally on par with the one she had enjoyed in England. Why did she have to go away, taking Suren and Bibi with her? Robi missed his nephew and niece desperately as, he was sure, they did him. As for Jyoti dada and Natun Bouthan, they were living in Chandannagar. Jyoti dada’s jute business had packed up and he was looking for something else to do. It was not a good time for him to be living in Jorasanko where Babamoshai’s reprimanding eyes would follow him everywhere. Besides, Natun Bouthan was not happy in the city. She loved the river and her health improved in natural surroundings.

  Robi decided to make one last attempt to go to England and asked his father for permission.

  ‘England!’ Debendranath’s lip curled sarcastically. ‘How do you propose to waste my money this time?’

  Robi’s face flushed with shame and humiliation. He could have told his father that he had been passed from school to school and tutor to tutor and that, just when he was settling down and doing well, he had been recalled. But he didn’t. ‘I promise you, Babamoshai,’ he said instead, ‘this time I’ll return with a degree. I’ll let nothing come in my way.’

  Debendranath frowned. ‘Let me think about it,’ he said. ‘You’ll have my answer in a few days.’

  Debendranath had sent the telegram to Satyendra, commanding him to bring Robi back after he had heard that his youngest son was getting too friendly with his landlady’s daughters. That he was singing and dancing with them and conducting séances in darkened rooms. Later, he had pondered the matter and regretted his hasty decision. The boy had to sow his wild oats. Everyone did. Didn’t Debendranath squander his father’s money, with both hands, at his age? Robi was a good, quiet, hard-working boy, and the very fact that he wanted to go back and complete what he had set out to do augured well. He ought to be given a second chance. But this time, Debendranath resolved, he wouldn’t send him alone. Soudamini’s son Satya would go with him. Satya was older than Robi and smarter and shrewder. The two boys would study together and Satya would keep an eye on him.

  But, again, Debendranath made a mistake. Satya had been married a couple of years ago and was a father already. As a result, he started feeling homesick from the moment the ship pulled away from the dock. He missed his wife and daughter so desperately, and was so worried that he wouldn’t be able to live without them, that his anxiety and misery turned into physical symptoms. He moaned and groaned with every movement of the ship, complained of acute stomach cramps and declared, within a few hours, that he wouldn’t stay on this wretched tub to die of puking and purging. He would get off at the first stop and make his way back to Kolkata. And he wouldn’t do it by himself either. Robi would come with him and they would tell Debendranath that they had taken a joint decision. Robi was appalled. He told Satya, again and again, that his affliction was nothing more than ordinary seasickness and that the symptoms would pass in a few days. But Satya wouldn’t listen to a word.

  Robi was in a serious quandary. He had made up his mind to go to England, study at the Bar, and obtain a degree. The decision hadn’t been easy. He had had to resolve many contradictory impulses, suppress many emotions. Besides, he had told his father that this time nothing would stand in the way of his returning as a full-fledged barrister. How could he abandon the whole project even before it began? Only an hour ago, he had stood on the deck, looked out on the expanse of blue-green water, and composed a lyric: Tomaarei koriachhi jeeban er dhruba taara…

  You are my lodestar; I shall follow your light

  Never again shall I flounder, in this ocean of life

  He had meant it as a vow undertaken before the Almighty, a pledge that, henceforth, he would be guided by His will and judgement. But a face kept floating before his eyes. Natun Bouthan’s face, not pale and haunted as it usually appeared to him, but bright and laughing. And the more he pushed it away, the clearer it became. ‘Who is your lodestar, Robi?’ the eyes challenged. ‘Whose light
will you follow?’

  ‘What have you decided, Robi?’ Satya’s voice broke into his musings.

  Robi pulled himself together. ‘If you insist on leaving, you may,’ he said firmly, ‘but I can’t come with you. I promised Babamoshai’

  Satya’s face started working painfully and he burst into tears. ‘How can you abandon me?’ he cried out piteously. ‘You know very well that I can’t face Karta Dada alone. The old man will swallow me alive.’

  Robi stared in horror at the sight of a full-grown hulk of a man, a husband and father, wailing like a child. The tears were streaming down Satya’s cheeks and wetting his starched and fashionably puckered shirtfront.

  ‘Think of the money he has spent, Satya,’ he tried to reason with his nephew. ‘How can we throw it all away?’

  ‘It will be much worse for him if I die on the boat. He’ll never forgive you’

  ‘Why should you die? No one dies of seasickness.’

  ‘I know I will. I feel it in my bones.’ Satya sobbed uncontrollably for a few minutes, then looked shrewdly at Robi from the corner of his eye. ‘Have you forgotten our childhood, Robi?’ he asked softly. ‘We were brought up like brothers and shared all our joys and sorrows. I’ve shielded and protected you so many times, from so many dangers. And now, when I need your support, will you have the heart to abandon me?’

  Robi cast about feverishly in his mind, trying to recall an occasion when Satya had saved him from danger but couldn’t think of any. He stood, irresolute, for a few moments, then shook his head slowly. Satya saw that his words were having no effect. Action was necessary. Rushing out of the cabin to the deck, he put his foot on the first rung of the rail. ‘Then there’s no option left to me,’ he shrieked wildly, ‘except to take my own life.’

  Robi ran after him and pulled him away. ‘You’re still a child, Satya.’ He laughed. ‘Go back to your cabin and rest. You’ll feel better tomorrow.’