‘Opium can turn deadly if carelessly taken. Too often or more than one at a time. People become addicted and die… sometimes…’
‘I’ll take only one. And that, too, when I can’t sleep at all. I promise you…’ Rising, she went to her closet and came back with something clutched in her palm which she pressed into Bishu’s hand. There was a clinking sound and Bishu stared dumbfounded. Four heavy silver coins, the head of the Empress with its high topknot embossed on one side, lay on her palm. Four silver rupees! Concealing a smirk of triumph, she asked for a piece of paper and placed on it, very carefully, five small pellets. ‘Remember,’ she warned, ‘only one at a time. At long intervals. Take it with a glass of hot milk – only when you are especially wakeful.’
‘I’ll remember,’ Kadambari said meekly, then, clearing her throat, she added, ‘Give me some more. Who knows when you’ll come next!’
Bishu pursed her lips admonishingly but tipped two more pellets from her hand on to the paper.
Jnanada’s father, Abhayacharan Mukhopadhyay, had set dozens of matchmakers scouring the villages to find a bride for the youngest scion of the Tagore family long before the party from Jorasanko arrived. As a result, Jnanada was inundated with proposals from the moment she set foot in Narendrapur. But it seemed as though a pestilence had passed over the Pirali maidens of Jessore, for not one suitable girl was to be found. Jnanada and Jyotirindra did two to three bride viewings every day and insisted on taking Rabindranath and Kadambari with them. Rabindranath hated these inspection visits and disappeared, just before one was due, whenever he could. But for Kadambari there was no escape. Most of the girls they saw were infants. Barely four or five years old. They were frightened at the sight of so many strangers and many of them burst into tears. Kadambari found the whole process of bride viewing distasteful. Was there no way, she thought, other than going to strange houses, alarming the little girls, refusing the refreshments their fathers had spent good money and trouble to procure, and coming away with a promise of conveying their decision in a day or two. A promise which was never kept. She voiced her reservations several times, till an exasperated Jnanada shut her up with a sharp retort. ‘What do you want us to do? Marry Robi to the girl with snot running down her nose? Or to the one with the squint and half her sari bunched up in her arm pit? Or do you want us to pack up and go back to Kolkata? If you care to remember it was your idea to come to Jessore. Not mine.’
One evening, as Jnanada, Jyotirindra and Kadambari were walking back after seeing a girl in Dakshindihi, they came across an employee of theirs walking down the path towards them.
‘Beni Babu!’ Jyotirindranath exclaimed. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I come from these parts.’ Beni Rai’s eyes lit up at the sight of his master’s son. ‘My ancestral home is in the village of Phooltala. I didn’t know you were in Jessore.’ Stooping, he touched everyone’s feet and asked, ‘Are you here to collect rents, Natun Babu?’
‘No. We have no estates here. We’ve come to find a bride for Robi.’
A startled look came into the man’s eyes followed by a cautious gleam. ‘And Robi Babu?’ he asked softly. ‘Is he here too?’ Jyotirindra nodded and was about to walk on when Beni Rai stopped him with folded hands. ‘A request, Natun Babu,’ he said. ‘Now that you are here, and the bou ranis too, I can’t let you leave without setting foot in my humble dwelling. It’s not far from here. Half a mile at the most.’
‘Arre na na,’ Jyotirindra cried. ‘We’re on our way back to Narendrapur. We are late enough already. Mejo Bouthan’s mother will be worrying’
‘Another day then. Just name it and the time. I know Mejo Bou rani’s father and have visited the house. I’ll come to fetch you myself.’
Neither Jnanada nor Jyotirindra were keen on going to an employee’s house. That, too, a purchasing clerk earning only twelve rupees a month. They tried to get out of it on various pretexts. But Beni Rai begged and pleaded, coaxed and cajoled and wouldn’t let them leave till he had extracted a promise of a visit. ‘Be sure to bring Robi Babu with you,’ he called after them as they walked away. ‘And the children too.’
The residents of Phooltala were filled with amazement at the arrival of Beni Rai’s distinguished visitors. Crowding outside his house they asked one another, ‘Who are they? Where have they come from?’ ‘They are the Tagores of Jorasanko,’ someone answered, ‘Raimoshai’s employers from Kolkata. Have you ever seen such magnanimity? He’s their paid servant and they visit him like an equal.’ Voices agog with curiosity buzzed and whispered, ‘What handsome regal-looking gentlemen! And what elegant ladies! Why do you think they are really here?’ Children, half naked and barefooted, stared at Suren’s tweed coat and cap and Bibi’s pink silk frock, clocked stockings and cherry-red shoes. It wasn’t for long, however. Beni Rai drew his guests into the house and shut the door and the crowd, though dying to see what was going on inside, had no option but to disperse.
Benimadhav Raichowdhuri’s ancestors were Pirali Brahmins from Khulna who had settled in the obscure village of Phooltala in Jessore. Here, his wife Dakshayani lived alone with her daughter Bhavatarini and infant son Nagendra while Benimadhav worked in the household of the Tagores of Jorasanko, coming to the village only for short periods of time at long intervals. It was no wonder, then, that Dakshayani’s complaints about his carelessness towards his family, his failure to procure a groom for his daughter in particular, outweighed her pleasure in seeing him whenever he came. ‘You forget us completely when you are in Kolkata,’ she had said to him only yesterday, her eyes flashing fire and her huge nose hoop swinging from mouth to ear with her indignant sniffs. ‘Phuli is nearly eleven. Such a great girl and you’re not concerned about her in the least! What do you care? You run off to the city and leave me to deal with neighbours and relatives who keep reminding me that our ancestors will burn in hell if we don’t wed our daughter soon.’
Benimadhav had listened with pursed lips and grinned. ‘Patience, ginni, patience!’ He had nodded his head knowingly. ‘It’s a king-sized rui I have my eye upon. All I need to do is to let it gambol in the water for a while. I’ll pull it up with a jerk when the time comes!’ Dakshayani had stared at him in astonishment and urged him to be more explicit. But Benimadhav would say no more.
Ushering Jyotirindranath and the others into the front room, he begged them to sit on the chowki and make themselves comfortable. Then, stepping into the kitchen, where his wife was putting finishing touches to the payesh and chandrapuli she would serve to her guests, he hissed in her ear, ‘Get Phuli ready. Make her wear the green sari I brought for her and do up her hair. And, yes, send her to the front room with the refreshments.’ And, before an open-mouthed Dakshayani could utter a word, he walked quickly away.
As it turned out, Benimadhav didn’t need to let his big fish gambol in the water for any length of time. It leaped into his lap. The moment Jnanada saw the girl, she asked sharply, ‘Is this your daughter, Beni Babu? How old is she?’
‘She is ten and a half, Mejo Bou rani.’
‘Ten and a half and not married?’
‘What can I do? Working in Kolkata, eleven months in the year, I have no time to look for a suitable groom. Besides, people ask for big dowries these days. I’m a poor man…’
Jnanada leaned towards Jyotirindra. ‘This girl seems all right,’ she whispered urgently in his ear. ‘We don’t need to look any further.’
‘What are you saying?’ Jyotirindra whispered back. ‘The daughter of an employee—’
‘So what?’ Jnanada threw a sideways glance at Kadambari and continued, ‘We’ve seen so many girls. Not one of them is as suitable as this one.’
Kadambari had seen the glance and heard the whispers. She stared, aghast, her eyes moving from her brother-in-law to Beni Rai’s daughter and back again in bewilderment. Robi! So tall, fair and handsome in his puckered dhuti, satin vest and gold-rimmed spectacles! He had taken to wearing his hair a little long these days and the gentle waves r
esting on the nape of his neck together with the soft, black down covering his cheeks and chin, made his eyes look larger and more expressive. Her eyes turned once more to the girl. She was short for her age and had a plain face and muddy complexion. And her head seemed a little large for the rest of her, the jaws square with full round, drooping cheeks.
They’re no match at all, Kadambari thought indignantly. But she knew that Jnanadanandini had made up her mind and would push it through, forcefully, brushing aside everyone else’s views. She glanced in the girl’s direction once more, a dull ache in her heart. Then, quite inexplicably, her feelings changed. There was something so meek and patient, so humble and self-effacing in the way the girl stood before them, her head bowed, the shadow of her lashes resting on her cheeks. And when she raised her eyes, Kadambari saw a warmth, a gentle peace radiate from them. Her heart lifted. Her sixth sense told her that this girl would be good for Robi.
‘She’s very plain,’ she heard her husband hiss in Jnanada’s ear, ‘and uneducated.’
‘We were all so,’ pat came Jnanada’s reply. ‘These things are easily remedied. I’m fixing the match here.’
‘Babamoshai will never agree.’
But, strangely enough, Debendranath, from whom the most serious objections had been anticipated, gave his consent readily. Convinced that his youngest son was wasting his time in the company of his Natun Bouthan, who spoiled and mollycoddled him, he wanted to get him away from her sheltering wings and make him apply himself to the serious business of life. And how better to do so than to foist a wife on him? As for the inequality of the match, it didn’t worry him unduly. Marriages grew and evolved and husband and wife veered towards each other in course of time. In a few years all would be well. He sent a message from Mussourie, where he was staying, directing his sons to get the rites solemnized as early as possible, following which Rabindranath was to begin inspecting the estates and looking into the accounts. He sent clear instructions that the cost of the marriage would be borne by the groom’s family and that it would be held in Jorasanko. A house would be rented in Kolkata for Beni Babu and his family and all their expenses taken care of.
The day after the turmeric ceremony, Rabindranath was invited to a bachelor meal, next door, in Baithak Khana Bari. Humming a little tune, he walked through the halls and galleries of the huge seven-winged mansion, looking this way and that as he went past the huge salon with its heavy mahogany furniture and Persian carpets, dim and dusty with age, the stately dining hall, and the billiard room, where Dwarkanath had entertained his English guests. The front veranda with its magnificent view of the garden had a number of easels with unfinished paintings on them. Stacks of canvases, pots of paint and dozens of brushes lay scattered about. He smiled indulgently. His cousin Gunendranath’s children were very fond of painting. Even the little girls Sunayani and Binayani. As for twelve-year-old Aban, he was the most gifted of them all. Mejo Bouthan had been the first to recognize his talent and had prevailed upon Guno dada to arrange special lessons for him. Being uncannily perceptive to the needs and aspirations of the younger generation, she had started a journal called Balak in which all the children of the two houses were roped in to participate. She invited contributions of all kinds be they stories, poems, plays or sketches. Bouthan gave the impression of being arrogant and self-centred but she was, at heart, very warm and giving. She loved her husband’s family and involved herself generously in their affairs.
These thoughts passed through Rabindranath’s head as he walked into the abarodh where the family awaited him. Abanindra came running towards him and clutched his hand. ‘Why Robi ka!’ he exclaimed, ‘you look like a prince.’
It was true. In his fine silk dhuti, yellow satin vest, and the gorgeous green and gold jamawar shawl which had belonged to his grandfather, Rabindranath had never looked handsomer. A deep flush rose from the nape of his neck and spread to the tips of his ears.
‘Look, look!’ his eldest cousin Ganendranath teased, ‘Robi’s blushing. His cheeks are as pink as his rose maiden’s.’ Ganendra loved his young cousin’s songs, particularly Boli o amaar golap bala and made him sing it whenever he saw him.
Coming to the room in which his bachelor meal was laid out, Robi stared at Aban’s mother, Soudamini, in dismay. ‘What have you done, Bouthan?’ he cried. ‘Can a single human being eat all this?’
‘Why not? You’re a young man. Your cousin could eat twice this amount at your age.’
In front of a velvet asan that formed an emerald green rectangle on the chequered marble floor, was an immense silver thala on which rice rose in a gleaming white pyramid. Surrounding it were twenty-one silver bowls in three rows, filled with varieties of fried, steamed and curried fish and mutton, vegetables and greens, lentils, curds, sweets, pickles and relishes. ‘You must eat it all,’ Soudamini warned. ‘That’s the rule of a bachelor meal.’
‘The rules you women make,’ Rabindranath sat on the asan and touched his fingers to the rice, ‘are all aimed at punishing us men.’
‘Tell us about your bride, Robi,’ Soudamini said, waving a fan over the food to ward off flies. ‘I’m glad you’re marrying a girl from Phooltala. That’s my paternal village too. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? Is she pretty?’
‘I went to see her but I didn’t see her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I kept my eyes on the floor. Since I’ll have to marry the girl my bouthans choose for me, I may as well go through the process with my eyes and ears shut.’
‘Silly boy!’ Soudamini scolded. ‘You should have seen her and, if you didn’t like her, you should have said so. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll turn out well. I don’t know her but I believe she’s a distant cousin of mine.’
Rabindranath smiled. Picking up a fish ball with his thumb and forefinger, he popped it absentmindedly into his mouth.
The wedding was a low-key affair with very few family members present. Debendranath hadn’t graced his children’s marriages for many years and he didn’t do so now. However, he sent his wedding gift of five akbari mohurs to the bride together with instructions that fifteen rupees be given to her every month and the expenses of her upkeep and education be met without fail. He also increased his youngest son’s allowance to a hundred rupees. Since no one had expected him to be present, Debendranath wasn’t missed. But what surprised, even shocked, the household was that Jnanadanandini stayed away. She was with her husband in the port city of Karoar, a picturesque spot surrounded by blue mountains covered with sandal trees and wild cardamom bushes, where Satyendranath was posted as judge. She wrote to say that she and her family would not be attending the wedding but that she would bless the bride on her return to Kolkata. Hardest of all, for Rabindranath, was the absence of his eldest sister, Soudamini, who had brought him up as her own son. She was visiting Satyendranath and Jnanada at Karoar and wouldn’t come either. Nor would her husband Saradaprasad. He was away in Shilaidaha supervising the rent collection.
But the presence of one person, fortuitous and unanticipated, made up for all these losses. Tripura Sundari came to the wedding. She was living with her brothers, in a house close to Jorha Girja, or the twin churches, and she promptly responded to Kadambari’s letter of invitation. She was very happy and would come, she wrote back, but she wouldn’t touch any food in that house. Kadambari knew that she hated her father-in-law and harboured suspicions that he would poison her if he got the opportunity because, then, he would be released from the payment of the one thousand rupees he made to her annually. Kadambari sent a discreet message informing Tripura that Debendranath was not attending the wedding. But Tripura stood firm. Nothing would pass through her lips, not even a drop of water, and no one was to request her, much less put pressure on her.
After the wedding was over and all the rituals concluded, Tripura sent for her carriage and was about to leave when Neepmayi came in. She had bathed, at that unearthly hour, and her wet hair streamed down her back over the crackling new garad silk she w
ore. In one hand she carried a stone platter filled with sweets and fruits and, in the other, a black marble glass of sherbet. ‘You haven’t eaten anything since you came, Chhoto Kaki,’ she said. ‘We can’t let you go fasting from our house on a day like this. I know how particular you are, so I bathed and changed into a new silk sari before preparing this platter.’
‘Ah! You foolish girl.’ Tripura laughed as at a good joke. ‘Why did you take so much trouble? Didn’t I tell you all that I wouldn’t eat anything?’
‘But… but why? What have we done?’
‘O Ma!’ Tripura put a hand on her cheek. ‘Why should you do anything? Today is my Sankata. Haven’t you heard of Sankata? The Sankat mochan brata! O! I forgot. How would Brahmo women like you know of the hundred and one austerities we Hindu widows practise? I’ll go home, do my puja, then drink some gangajal and milk. That’s the rule.’ Rising, she went out of the door, leaving a roomful of women turned to stone.
A month after the wedding, Jnanadanandini came back to Kolkata and the first thing she did was to carry Rabindranath and Bhavatarini off with her. Kadambari had taken it for granted that the little bride would live in Jorasanko, in the new wing which had been prepared for her. Ever since the day of the bride viewing, Kadambari’s heart had warmed to the girl, as to a daughter, and she was determined to make her passage into her new life as smooth and easy as possible. She wanted to shower her with love and affection, teach her the ways of the family and protect her from its politics. Consequently, she was stunned when Jnanada swooped, like a kite, on the household and announced her decision. ‘I’m sending her to Loreto House,’ she declared. ‘I’ve done the admission already and got English outfits stitched for her. She’ll be joining after Christmas. And I’ve also appointed an English lady to teach her spoken English and to play the piano. I had to change her name though—’
Jorasanko Page 28