Satya created such a furore that night that the ship’s doctor had to be sent for. He examined the patient but couldn’t make out what was wrong. ‘He’s probably suffering from marine phobia,’ he told Robi in a puzzled voice. ‘It’s doubtful if he will make it all the way to England. He should get off the ship in Madras and go back home.’ Satya heard what the doctor said with a joyful gleam in his eye but behaved so hysterically and clung to Robi so tenaciously that Robi was forced to disembark with him. Satya’s affliction was miraculously cured the moment his feet touched solid ground, and the two made their way back to Kolkata.
Arriving at Jorasanko with a quaking heart, Robi heard that his father was in Shantiniketan but was expected back any day. Not daring to face him, he escaped to Chandannagar where Jyotirindra had rented a house by the river. It was called Moran’s Garden, Moran being the name of the owner, an indigo merchant whose business had fallen on evil days, reducing him to the ignominy of having to lease out his dwelling house to a native. It was a beautiful villa built on different levels with a large terrace in front, from which a flight of steps led down to the water. The rooms were of varying shapes and sizes with high ceilings and arched windows of frosted and stained glass. Huge beautiful gardens with some fine old trees surrounded the villa on three sides.
Robi was happy in Chandannagar with his favourite brother and sister-in-law. But the self-doubt and discontent that had motivated his attempt to go to England and make something of his life still weighed on his soul. He had occupied the attic on top of the house and turned it into his bedroom. It was shaped like a circle and had curved French windows, rising from floor to ceiling, and serving as walls. When these were opened up, room and sky became one, and Robi, lying prone on the bed, writing, felt himself floating in space. He wrote prolifically, trying to give expression to all he saw, thought and felt. The lazy warmth of the sun-kissed autumn days and the sweet, sudden cool of the shiuli-scented nights. The music that the beat of the wings of birds, silhouetted against a flaming sunset, made in his heart. The pathos and nostalgia that flooded it at the sight of a little girl with a nose-drop standing by the river, with a mud-pot on one hip. Everything, everything in the universe was imbued with a deep meaning but, though he strained and agonized, he could not reach its core. He wrote feverishly but the end result was frustrating. It was always partial; a fragment of the whole. What he wrote did not satisfy him. He was tortured by that he had left unwritten.
Would he ever succeed in becoming a poet of Biharilal Chakravarty’s stature? Natun Bouthan said that his songs were passable but he needed to evolve more, much more, as a poet. He was too subjective; too caught up in the self. ‘Let go, Robi,’ she urged him over and over again. ‘Open all your doors and set your soul free. To stretch and deepen, grow rich. To hear the murmur of all created things.’
After winding up the jute business, Jyotirindranath had been looking around for some other project into which he could throw himself body and soul. His brain teemed with ideas and he couldn’t sit idle for a minute. His self-incarceration in Chandannagar had begun on a pleasant note but was gradually wearying him with its monotony. He was writing a lot and had found recognition as one of the finest playwrights of Kolkata. His plays were performed regularly at the National Theatre, on Beadon Street, and some of them had become so popular they were brought back on stage again and again. Sarojini or The Conquest of Chittor was the most in demand, Robi’s composition Jwal jwal chita having struck a tremendous chord with the public. But, workaholic that he was, he yearned for harder, more intense activity. And, suddenly, he found an outlet.
Running his eyes through the advertisements in the English newspaper one morning, he turned to his wife and said, ‘There’s a ship being auctioned next Friday. Shall I make a bid for it?’
‘A ship!’ Kadambari looked up, startled. They were sitting on the terrace, looking out on the river and sipping their morning tea. Putting down her cup she said, ‘It will be very expensive. Where will you find so much money?’
Jyotirindranath looked at his wife’s anxious eyes and laughed. ‘Arre! It’s only a shell. It won’t cost much. There’s no harm in attending the auction and making a bid. If I can’t afford it, I won’t buy it.’
‘Why are you thinking of buying a ship in the first place? What will you do with it?’
‘I’ll start a shipping company.’ Jyotirindra’s eyes shone. ‘It’s a wonderful idea, Natun Bou! My forefathers were stevedores; my grandfather a shipping magnate. A love of ships runs in my blood.’
‘Think carefully before you rush into anything,’ Kadambari said worriedly. ‘And consult a few experts. Babamoshai will never forgive you if this business fails, like the others.’
‘It won’t fail.’
Jyotirindra attended the auction and acquired the ship at the highest bid of seven thousand rupees. Sending for Mr Bushby, chief engineer of the Bengal Shipping Corporation, he asked him for his opinion. Mr Bushby pocketed the fee of sixteen rupees, examined the shell and pronounced it to be first-rate. ‘It will make a splendid steamer,’ he said. ‘Which line do you propose to run it on?’
‘The Khulna–Barisal line.’ Jyotirindranath had done his homework and had chosen the Khulna–Barisal line because he would have the monopoly. There were no ships running on it.
‘A good choice.’ Bushby nodded encouragingly. ‘Get Kelso Stuart of Howrah to do the reconstruction. They are expensive but they do an excellent job. The ship will be as good as new.’
Jyotirindra took Bushby’s advice and gave the contract to the Kelso and Stuart Company. He also requested Jnanadanandini to advise him on the décor. She had lived in England for two years and understood more about these things than anyone else he knew.
Jyotirindra knew that he could neither inspect the reconstruction work nor handle the thousand formalities connected with starting an enterprise of this nature, with any degree of professionalism, if he didn’t base himself in Kolkata. But he was wary of returning to Jorasanko where there were too many people with too many questions. Besides, his father would be sure to pass some caustic comments. He decided to rent a house in Sudder Street, and go home only after everything was done and the ship was ready for her maiden voyage. He would throw a grand party on deck that night and invite all his friends and relations. He felt the thrill of it already, heard the music and laughter, and saw the awe and admiration in everyone’s eyes.
After coming to Kolkata, Jyotirindra got so busy that Robi and Kadambari hardly saw him. He was off at the crack of dawn and returned late at night so exhausted that he just tumbled into bed and fell asleep. Kadambari felt worried and anxious about him. She wanted to know how the reconstruction work was coming along. How much longer it would take and what it would cost. She wanted to tell him that he was working too hard and eating too little. But he had no time to talk to her.
One afternoon, Neepmayi and her daughter Pratibha came to see her. Pratibha was sixteen, a stunning beauty, and the most accomplished of Debendranath’s granddaughters. She had studied in Loreto Convent, spoke English and French fluently, and was proficient in both Western and Indian classical music. She had a beautiful singing voice and could play the piano and the sitar. Last year she had been given the female lead in Robi’s opera based on the life of the dacoit turned saint, Balmiki, who had conceived and written the Ramayana. It was a public performance and the people of Kolkata had marvelled to see a daughter of the Tagores of Jorasanko acting and singing before strangers. Robi, who had played the role of Balmiki, was so impressed by her musical and histrionic talents, he had added her name to the title, making it Balmiki Pratibha.
Kadambari embraced the girl as she stooped to touch her feet, and kissed her. How times change! she thought wonderingly. Pratibha is sixteen and still unwed. And I… I carried the stigma of ‘barren woman’ from the age of fourteen. To think that Sejo Thakur, the most rigid advocate of the abarodh system, of whom we were all so mortally afraid, is her father! He not only allows her to a
ct and sing on a public stage, he has also kept her unmarried till now. What a strange changing world we live in!
After the preliminary courtesies were exchanged, the three sat on Kadambari’s bed, ate paan, and chatted, mother and daughter providing her with snippets of information about the other members of the family. Subhankari had had a fall and broken her hip. She was completely bedridden, dependent on Kalo for all her physical functions. Swarnakumari hadn’t come to Jorasanko after leaving for Kashiabagan. She was too busy with her writing and her Sakhi Samiti. Kadambari had heard about Swarna’s latest interests. She had become a member of the Theosophical Society and had opened a Kolkata branch of which she was president. She had also taken up social work. She had founded an organization for destitute women and Robi had named it Sakhi Samiti.
‘She who has no time for her own daughters,’ Neepmayi’s scornful voice floated in Kadambari’s ears, ‘has taken on the responsibility for all the women of the land.’
Kadambari stiffened. She felt apprehensive about conversations of this kind. If she said anything, she didn’t know how it would be reported. If she didn’t, she would be criticized for being haughty and unfriendly.
‘What news of Nau Thakur?’ she asked quickly.
Neepmayi’s expression changed, turning mournful. She shook her head sadly. Birendra’s condition had improved somewhat, she said, after his prolonged treatment at Dhulenda Lunatic Asylum. He was not menacing or hostile anymore. But he was certainly not cured. He was barely talking these days and eating practically nothing. And he seemed totally unaware of what was happening around him. His son Bolu, now twelve, was a great admirer of his Robi kaka and wanted to copy him in everything. He had also started writing poetry.
‘And Nau didi? How’s she?’
‘Prafulla is totally wrapped up in her boy,’ Neepmayi replied in a tight voice. ‘Nothing else, no one else exists for her. She lives in her part of the house with her husband and son, as though in another world. She doesn’t even talk to me – her own sister.’
‘She’s had a hard life…’ Kadambari murmured.
‘No one is denying that. But she behaves as if it’s my fault. What could I have done? I was a child myself.’ She frowned and looked thoughtful. Then, forgetting her sister, she turned her attention to her sister-in law. ‘I hear Natun Thakurpo has bought a ship,’ she said, her voice curious.
‘Yes,’ Kadambari replied softly. Over the years she had developed a very fine set of antenna and could sense, instinctively, when an attack was coming her way. ‘He wants to start a shipping company. Like our grandfather-in-law.’
‘Running a shipping company is expensive.’ Neepmayi frowned. ‘From where will he get the money?’
‘From the profits of his jute and indigo businesses,’ Kadambari replied, adding with a little laugh, ‘He’s so busy and working so hard I hardly see him these days.’
‘So I hear,’ Neepmayi said dryly. ‘He spends all his time with his mejo bouthan. A lot of people have seen them together, in shops and auction houses, and even near the Ganga in Srirampur where his ship is docked.’
Kadambari’s face went white. Her hands started to tremble and she hid them under her anchal. Neepmayi was looking at her. She was waiting for an answer. Kadambari lifted her head. ‘He has asked Mejo didi to help him with the décor,’ she said in a voice she kept steady with great effort.
‘Why?’
‘Because she has travelled to England and back on English ships and knows what the interiors look like. My husband wants his ship to be exactly like those of the British.’
Something about the way Kadambari spoke, the slight stress she placed on the words my husband, made Neepmayi flush. She felt she had been put in her place, made to feel mean and petty. Politely but definitely. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Natun Bou,’ she said, ‘and seeing you look so well.’ Signalling with her eyes to her daughter, she rose to depart. ‘I hope Natun Thakurpo’s new venture is a success,’ she said, reaching the door.
Kadambari went with her. ‘I’ll tell him you came.’ She smiled sweetly at her sister-in-law and niece. ‘And I’m really sorry to hear about Didima. I’ll go and see her one of these days.’
‘Do that. You were always her favourite. She misses you.’
That evening, Robi went from room to room looking for Kadambari. Dusk was falling and shadows were lengthening in the garden. The house was absolutely still. Where was Natun Bouthan? Pratibha and her mother had come to see her. He had met them on their way to their carriage. He hadn’t seen Natun Bouthan after that but he knew that visits from the women of Jorasanko disturbed her, for some reason. Who knows what Sejo Bouthan had said to her?
No, she wasn’t in the house or the garden. Could she have gone up to the roof? He remembered Barna’s description of Kadambari trying to jump from the terrace of the Jorasanko house. Taking two steps at a time, he bounded up the stairs. And then… he saw her. Sitting quietly in a corner, her back against a wall, her eyes on the sky. She was humming a tune, so softly, Robi could barely hear it. Yet the pathos and nostalgia of the strains were palpable. They merged with the expression on her face of which Robi could see only half, that too, dimly, in the fading light.
He felt sweat break out over his body in relief. Thank God she was safe. He stood where he was for a few minutes, waiting for the pounding in his heart to subside, then walked slowly up to her. ‘Why are you sitting here all alone, Natun Bouthan?’ he asked softly.
Kadambari turned to look at him. She was wearing a dusky pink crepe sari with a short-sleeved velvet jacket, the colour of clotted blood. Her long, beautifully moulded arms were bare. A diamond and ruby choker encircled her slender throat and a string of jasmine was twined in the knot of rich hair, the faint scent of which rose in the air, sweet and elusive.
Robi had never seen her look more beautiful. Poor Natun Bouthan, he thought sadly, she dresses up every evening and waits till late at night for Jyoti dada. But he doesn’t come. Doesn’t come? Un hunh. Robi made a correction. He comes… but not to her. A fragment of a song, as yet unwritten, stirred in his head. Sakha hé, he hummed beneath his breath, elé na. What next? His mind went blank. He couldn’t think of another line. Shrugging off the song, he sank down beside her. ‘Why are you sitting here all alone?’ he repeated. ‘Where’s Bini?’
Kadambari moved and made place for him. ‘Bini’s daughter has measles,’ she said. ‘I told her to stay with the child.’
Robi took Kadambari’s hand. It was the first time he had done so with full volition. It felt light and dry. Brittle like an autumn leaf. ‘Why is your hand so hot?’ he asked. ‘Do you have fever?’
‘It’s nothing.’ Kadambari withdrew her fingers gently from his clasp.
But Robi reached out for them once more. ‘Natun Bouthan,’ he said, ‘it is always I who tell you stories. Tonight, you must tell me one.’
‘I… I tell you a story? But I don’t know any.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘What is there to tell? I’m the ugly daughter of Shyam Ganguly of Harh Katar Gali. You know everything about me.’
‘I don’t mean in this life. Tell me about your earlier incarnation. When you were Hecate.’
‘Hecate Thakrun,’ Kadambari corrected. A smile flickered on her lips.
‘No. Only Hecate. Enchanting Hecate! Goddess of three realms – earth, sky and underworld.’
‘What nonsense you talk!’ She laughed and pulled her hand away from his but this time Robi did not reach for it again.
‘It isn’t nonsense,’ he said gravely. ‘Do you know that you are my muse? That I can’t write except when I see your face?’
‘That’s a lie. You lock yourself in your room and write all day. How many times do you see my face?’
A reply, in the bantering tone he habitually used with Kadambari, was ready on Robi’s lips when a vast, glittering, ice-white moon came creeping up the sky, banishing the dark in which they sat. A cluster of stars followed, a
nd earth and sky trembled with light. Robi could see Kadambari’s face clearly now. Her eyes were moist, suffused with an emotion he couldn’t identify. Was it disbelief? Or was it hope? He couldn’t tell. Her breath came unevenly through slightly parted lips. A fine sprinkle of sweat glimmered on her brow like moon dust. His body tensed. She was waiting for an answer. Waiting… He sought frantically in his mind for something to say. Something that was really… He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She sat very still, her head thrown back, her face bathed in moonlight. Her voice murmured in his ear. Don’t hold back, Robi… Let go… Send your soul winging into the sky where your destiny awaits you. But he knew she hadn’t spoken.
Suddenly, Robi was assailed by a strange sensation. He felt an explosion within him; the bursting of a dam. The weight of inhibition, diffidence, doubt and anxiety that he had carried on his chest, ever since he could remember, was crumbling under the impact. A terrible spasm, a gut-wrenching pain tore through his vitals as the walls which wombed the dark, clammy, confined space in which his poetry lay trapped, was reduced to rubble. He felt a great wall of water, strong as a tidal wave, rising within him, dancing and frothing over rocks and stones, then flowing in joyous abandon towards an unknown sea. And then, slowly, the pain and oppression lifted, and Robi’s heart felt light and free. His head swam and his limbs became wings. He felt he could drift through the night sky and touch the moon and stars. He smiled. He had found the answer to Kadambari’s question. Taking her hot, fevered hands in both of his, he cried out in a strange bewildered voice, ‘All the time, Natun Bouthan! All the time. Your face is everywhere. In the world I see, the dreams I dream, the verses I write. You are my poetry and my poetry, you.’
Kadambari did not pull back her hands. On the contrary, she gripped his tighter in hers. ‘What will you do when I am gone, Robi?’ she whispered, her eyes wide and fearful.
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