‘Change her name!’ Kadambari echoed in a faint voice.
‘Yes. Bhavatarini is very old fashioned. I’ve decided on Mrinalini. It’s a modern name and much prettier.’
‘But it isn’t her name,’ Kadambari muttered rebelliously.
‘You find fault with everything I do, Natun Bou,’ Jnanadanandini snapped. ‘Do you want Robi’s wife to remain a rustic forever? Don’t we have to smarten her up and make her worthy of this house?’
‘Yes. But not like this. Not all of a sudden. We must take her feelings and abilities into account. She’ll be miserable sitting in class with the elitist, English-speaking girls of Loreto Convent. Isn’t it better that we keep tutors for her at home and bring her education to a certain level before admitting her into a school?’
‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that or made arrangements,’ Jnanada replied airily. ‘I’ve spoken to the nuns and been assured by them that she won’t sit with the other girls. She’ll be given special lessons in a room by herself. And I’ll keep tutors too.’
‘Even so…’ Kadambari murmured. Then, seeing Jnanada’s brows come together, she added hastily, ‘I’m not questioning your decision, Mejo didi. I’m only concerned about the girl’s feelings. I want her to be happy.’
‘So do we all. But that can only happen when she makes herself worthy of her husband.’ Jnanadanandini swept away.
Kadambari stood staring at the ceiling, where a mynah had built her nest in one of the beams, then, seeing her brotherin-law at the door she asked gently, ‘Why do you want to give Chhoto Bou an English education, Robi? You’re one of the best-known poets of Bengal. Shouldn’t your wife be educated in the language you write in? Our own Bengali?’
Rabindranath was startled by the question. That he could have any say in what his wife would do or would not do hadn’t entered his mind. ‘But… but,’ he stammered, ‘it’s all arranged… Mejo Bouthan has… Babamoshai agrees with her. He’s written a letter.’
‘She’s your wife. You should take the decisions for her.’
Rabindranath blushed scarlet. ‘What are you saying? With so many elders present…’
So many elders. Kadambari sighed. She knew what the girl’s life would be like in Jnanada’s house. Strapped in strange outlandish garments – coats, skirts, shoes and stockings; made to pore over lessons she couldn’t comprehend; forcing her fingers to play an instrument she hadn’t even heard of, let alone seen; her name taken away from her. She would suffer a complete loss of identity. How painful that would be for the little village girl used to freedom and space, slow ways of living, feeling the sun and wind on her face and the grass beneath her feet! Kadambari knew her sister-in-law. She would never tire of pointing out the girl’s shortcomings. All with the best of intentions, which were to make a city lady out of her. A daughter-in-law worthy of the Tagores of Jorasanko. And Robi? He would see his wife’s distress and feel sorry for her but he wouldn’t find a way of protecting her.
‘I hear you’re going too,’ Kadambari asked, raising her eyes to his.
‘Yes. For a few months. But I’ll see you often. I’ll keep coming to Jorasanko.’
A week after Rabindranath left with his wife, Kadambari found the second letter…
II
Kadambari’s bedroom in Jorasanko had been renovated and redecorated by Jyotirindranath, in imitation of Jnanadanandini’s, soon after Rabindranath’s wedding. A glittering white ceiling, carved with festoons of flowery wreaths, had been put up in place of the old red and gilt one which had faded over the years. A three-tiered crystal chandelier with twenty-nine candles hung from it. The walls were papered in the palest of pale green and a huge Belgian mirror, in a black and gold frame, was fitted to one of them. The old-fashioned palanka with its intricately carved design of vines, bearing fruits and flowers and birds nestling among the leaves, on which Kadambari had slept ever since she had come to the house as a bride, had been banished to the attic and a shining mahogany four-poster bed, with a lilac and silver canopy, put in its place. Several gate-legged tables, inlaid with ivory, and delicate chairs upholstered in powder-blue and sea-green petit point, lay scattered about the room. The windows overlooking the terrace were draped in oyster-coloured satin with loops of white lace and, in front of the largest one, a carved walnut desk and a black leather armchair held pride of place.
It was a beautiful room but Kadambari felt estranged in it. The colours were not hers. They were Jnanadanandini’s. She liked warm, vibrant tints. Ochre, amber, moss green, rust and dusky pink. The style wasn’t hers either. She missed her old room. The cream walls with its ornamental fretwork; the warm red and gold ceiling with its broad beams in which birds nested in the spring and twittered and flitted about. She missed the sense of space the shining black and white floor had given the room, a space sadly diminished by the carpets with which much of it was now covered. English carpets in muted autumn shades. She even missed the old smell, the mouldy odour of aristocracy that had lingered in the walls and the dusty recollections it brought up of an old, forgotten, bygone era. This new, colourless, foreign-looking room wasn’t hers. She felt stifled in it.
After Rabindranath’s departure from Jorasanko, Kadambari had suffered from several spells of the mysterious illness that waylaid her from time to time. She had lain in bed for weeks together, her head throbbing, her hands and feet as cold as ice. Then, when the fever had left, she had risen and gone about her duties, her eyes unnaturally bright in a pale, worn face, her jacket flapping loosely from her thin arms and chest. Till the malady was on her again and she was forced to take to her bed. Rabindranath had visited her only once since his departure from Jorasanko. He had brought his book Chhobi o Gaan, newly released from the Brahmo Samaj Press, and shown her the dedication. Her limbs burning with fever, she had taken it in her trembling hands and read it aloud: This garland of songs is woven from the blossoms of last year’s spring. I place it at the feet of her, in the light of whose eyes the flowers opened, each dawn, one by one.
‘What convoluted metaphors you use, Robi!’ she had exclaimed, her flushed cheeks and fevered eyes belying the gaiety of her smile and tone. ‘Why don’t you say what you really mean?’
For some reason, Rabindranath had blushed scarlet. ‘As long as you know what I really mean’ he had begun but Kadambari had stopped him with a wave of her hand.
‘You are an established poet now, Robi,’ she had said gravely. ‘More famous than Biharilal Babu ever was! You don’t need me anymore’
‘That’s not true,’ Rabindranath interrupted.
‘What’s not true?’
‘That I don’t need you.’
Kadambari turned her head away. Then why don’t you come to me, my darling? Why do you stay away from me? The wail tore its way through her chest and reached her lips but the words remained unspoken.
Yet Rabindranath seemed to have heard them. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Natun Bouthan,’ he said gently. ‘I can’t come and see you as often as I wish because I’m neck deep in work. I have absolutely no time.’
Kadambari did not answer him or even turn her head. Sharp, scalding tears pricked her eyes and fell, one by one, on the pillow. She knew that what he said was only partially true. He was spending many hours each day in Swarnakumari’s house where preparations were on for Hiranmayi’s wedding. Swarna and Jnanada were very close and together they had planned a string of cultural programmes to precede the nuptials. One of these was a musical drama, Geeti Malya, a garland of songs, for which Robi had written the lyrics and her husband had composed the music. They got together, every evening, in the house in Kashiabagan. Other members of the family and special friends joined them and the hours flew pleasantly by in rehearsals and laughter, gossip and chatter, ending, each night, with a grand dinner cooked and served by Swarna’s trained Muslim khansama.
There was another reason why Robi avoided her. Jnanadanandini had told him that his intimacy with his natun bouthan had set a number of tongues wag
ging; that Babamoshai had heard the rumours and was displeased. All this and more Kadambari knew. Her sister-in-law, Neepmayi, came to her room every evening with a ‘How do you feel today, Natun Bou?’ and poured all the gossip she had heard during the day into her ears. No one, not her husband, not even Robi, cared to remember that she, Kadambari, lay confined to her bed with a recurring fever that was debilitating her body and paralysing her mind. That she was alone, totally alone in a world of shadows and memories.
She remembered an evening she and Robi had spent together in their boat on the river in Chandannagar. He had fixed his large dark eyes on hers and said in a sombre voice, ‘There is one person, only one, who reads all my work. Who praises and criticizes with honesty and knowledge. Who touches the deepest chords of my being with an unerring hand…’ That Robi was no more. He was gone from her forever. Like the balmy days and star-studded nights of Moran’s Garden, his love for her was now only a memory. She felt something rush to her head at the thought. She was experiencing this sensation often these days. A suffocating darkness accompanied by an excruciating pain in the chest.
It had started with her discovery of the third letter among the papers on her husband’s desk. There were three of them now in her jewel box, all commencing with the phrase Lord of my heart and ending with Your slave forever, Golapi. Three wads of paper, concealing in their scented depths, the agonies and ecstasies of a young woman in love. Kadambari had read them over and over again. She had them almost by heart. In her cooler moments she tried to think the matter out calmly. A woman, an actress named Golapi, was in love with her husband. What was so extraordinary in that? He was a man any woman might fall in love with. There was no indication in the letters that he responded with any, least of all an equal, passion. The very fact that he left them lying carelessly about and didn’t miss them when they disappeared was proof that he had no reason to be secretive and that he didn’t suffer from even a twinge of guilt. As for the handkerchief he had given her, it could have been an act of simple courtesy. A small comfort. A token solace given to one who was so far beneath him that he could have spurned her love with loathing but didn’t because he was sensitive and understanding. A perfect gentleman.
When she reasoned thus, Kadambari’s heart felt light and she laughed her fears away. But the niggling doubts returned to rankle her soul. Golapsundari was young and, unlike Kadambari, possessed superb health and strength. She was beautiful and talented. What was more, the art of making herself attractive to a man, to overwhelm him with the power of her sexuality, ran in her blood. Was it possible for a man to remain immune to this power? Totally immune? A man whose wife was plain, sickly and… barren? Then, the green pages crawling with their dark secret thoughts impinged on her brain and she felt this crushing in the chest, this blotting out of the light.
She fought the sensation now with all her might and overcame it. Turning her head she smiled at her brother-in-law. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said gently. ‘You are married now. It is your wife that you must consider. You should have dedicated the book to her.’
‘I thought of it,’ Rabindranath answered, frowning a little. ‘Then I wondered if it would serve any purpose. She barely knows her letters. She won’t read my poems and, even if she does, she won’t understand them.’
‘You must be patient with her. You must teach her to understand them.’ Overcome with exhaustion, Kadambari turned on her side and closed her eyes.
‘Natun Bouthan,’ Rabindranath called softly. But she neither turned nor answered him.
A week later. Kadambari sat up in bed and looked out of the window which stood open with the curtains pulled back. It was a glorious early summer morning. The sky was a startling blue and the air so crisp and crackling that she felt she could take great sheets of it in her hands, fold them, and put them away in her closet. Her fever had run its course, leaving her body as dry and brittle as a dead leaf. So light, she felt she could float about the room like a winged moth, then drift out of the open window into the hot blue sky. She brought her feet to the floor and stood up gingerly, telling herself that she mustn’t indulge in silly fancies. Not today. Today was a special day and she needed all her health and strength. Physical and mental.
The Kelso and Stuart Company had handed over her husband’s ship at last and it was to embark on its maiden voyage down the Ganga to Khulna. There was to be a grand celebration tonight with family and friends, on the deck, in the light of a full moon. Jyotirindranath had ordered the finest wines and an array of delicacies from an English hotel. And he had promised to come for her himself. He would bring the steamer all the way from Srirampur, dock it at some convenient point in the river, and come to Jorasanko in a hired carriage to take her. She would be the first passenger to set foot on Sarojini. Kadambari had secretly hoped that he would name the vessel after her but hadn’t minded in the least when he told her that it was to be Sarojini after the heroine of his most popular play.
‘Are you sure you feel well enough to go all the way and sit through the evening?’ Her husband had asked her only last night. When she assured him that she did, he had said, ‘Be ready by six o’clock then. Absolutely ready. I’ll come to fetch you. The tide will run out shortly afterwards and we’ll get stranded if you delay.’
‘I’ll be ready,’ she had said.
She spent the whole morning, sitting on her bed, sorting through piles of saris and jackets which Bini brought to her. She held each one to her face, glanced at herself in the mirror, and flung it away with an impatient hand, till the white satin sheets became a riot of motley colours. Bini stared at her in wonder. It wasn’t like her mistress to be so particular. Nothing seemed to please her. The apple-green watered silk with its border of pure Irish lace was too plain, she declared, to be worn at night. The purple baluchari too dark and sedate. There was a beautiful lilac georgette sari embroidered all over with pink and red rosebuds and a sky blue nayansukh silk spangled with silver stars. Jyotirindranath had bought them for her when they were living in Chandannagar. She had loved them at the time but now she thrust them aside with a gesture of distaste. The colours were too soft and subdued and the designs too young. They would suit Pratibha’s fair complexion and sweet youthfulness to perfection but they were quite unsuitable for a woman of her looks and years. Picking up a black crepe with an exquisitely worked gold border and anchal, she went to the mirror and draped it over her shoulder. She turned this way and that. Yes, this was it. It was a beautiful sari and, worn with a cloth of gold jacket and gold and diamond jewellery, it would look elegant and sophisticated. She would wear it tonight. The sari selected, all she needed to do now was to choose the jewels. But, even as she moved towards her jewel box, she changed her mind. She turned round again and peered into the mirror. She shook her head. The dead black of the crepe and its heavy gold accentuated the deep hollows of her face and the thinness of her neck. And, to tell the truth, it made her look a trifle elderly. Jnanadanandini was gifted with radiant health and undying bloom. It wouldn’t do to look old and withered beside her. She threw the sari on the bed along with the others.
‘What a mess you are making, Natun Bou rani!’ Bini had lost her patience by now. ‘It will take me hours to get your closet back in order again. You have so many pretty saris. Why don’t you simply choose one? What about this?’ She put her hand under an untidy heap and pulled out a jamdani in old rose and ivory. ‘This is your favourite sari and looks beautiful on you. Wear it with your rubies.’
But Kadambari shook her head. ‘It’s a day sari,’ she said, ‘and will look drab in the moonlight. I need a stronger colour; something more vivid.’
After a lot more saris were picked up and discarded, Kadambari settled for a peacock-blue Varanasi silk woven all over with flowers, leaves and buds in heavy gold. Bini was puzzled. It was one of the saris given by Kadambari’s mother-inlaw at the time of her wedding. But she had never worn it. Bini had often heard her say that it was too ornate and not her style. But, if she was surpr
ised at her mistress’s selection of the sari, she was dumbfounded at her choice of jewels. Heavy armlets of enamelled gold, shaped like birds, with emerald tails and beaks. A sitahaar with six strands of pearls held together with bands of rubies and ending in an enormous pendent. Rows of gold bangles. A pearl and emerald collar. Diamond flowers for the hair, three tiered ruby bells for the ears, and a crescent-shaped tikli to hang over her parting. These she took out of the jewel box and placed on the sari. ‘Put everything else back Bini,’ Kadambari commanded. ‘I’ve made my selection.’
‘Will you really wear all this?’ Bini’s voice was timid, hesitant.
‘Yes,’ Kadambari replied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because… because I’ve never seen you wearing this sari or so many jewels all together. Not even for a wedding.’
‘This is a special occasion. More important than a wedding.’
Kadambari was completely exhausted by the time the room was put in order again. Her body was bathed in sweat and she felt a quivering in her temples. Alarmed, she lay down quickly and put her arm over her eyes. ‘I’ll rest for a while,’ she told Bini.
‘Yes,’ the maid answered. ‘You’ve tired yourself with all this excitement. I’ll come back in half an hour and give you a good massage and bath. You must eat your lunch early today, Natun Bou rani, and sleep for a few hours. You’ll never be able to get through the evening if you don’t.’
At four o clock in the afternoon, Neepmayi came into Kadambari’s room. Bini had lit a dozen incense sticks and was waving the smoke over her mistress’s hair, strand by strand. Neepmayi frowned at the scene. ‘The carriages are leaving in half an hour, Natun Bou!’ she exclaimed. ‘And you have just started drying your hair. How much longer will you take?’
‘I’m not going with you,’ Kadambari replied. ‘Your brother-in-law is coming to fetch me at six o’clock.’
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