‘Coming to fetch you! All the way from Srirampur? Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. He told me so himself.’
‘I doubt he’ll find the time. From what I hear, he’s so busy with the arrangements he doesn’t know if he’s standing on his head or heels. Mejo didi and Robi have reached already and are helping him. Why don’t you come with us? We’ll wait till you’re ready.’
‘No,’ Kadambari said decisively, ‘I’m going with my husband.’
‘As you wish.’ Neepmayi walked to the door, then turned back again. ‘Babamoshai arrived last night,’ she said. ‘Did you know?’
‘No. Nobody told me.’
‘He’s very angry with Natun Thakurpo. He has given strict instructions in the office that no money is to be advanced to him in future. Barring his allowance of course.’
‘Why? What has my husband done?’
‘Dipu heard Babamoshai tell Bado Thakur that he was sure Natun Thakurpo’s new venture will prove just as abortive as his others. Jyoti had no business sense, he said, and no discretion. Instead of holding his tongue, he went and blabbered out his plans of running the steamer on the Khulna–Barisal line to Mr Bushby of all people. Didn’t he know that Englishmen stick together? Mr Bushby must have informed the Flotilla Company’
‘The what company?’
‘Don’t you know? Natun Thakurpo doesn’t have the monopoly anymore. A British company called Flotilla has beaten him to it. Their ships are already carrying cargo from Khulna to Barisal. I’m sure Kelso Stuart are also in the plot. They delayed the reconstruction work on purpose…’
Kadambari’s head reeled. Her husband wouldn’t have the monopoly! He would have to compete with a powerful British syndicate for survival! Could he do it? How hard he had worked and what hopes he had cherished of making this venture a success! Of making his father proud of him. Would all his hopes be dashed? Why, oh why hadn’t he told her? Didn’t he trust her? A wave of self-pity rose in her breast and her heart burned with humiliation. She had to hear her husband’s news from her sister-in-law!
But a new thought wiped these negative feelings away. He didn’t tell me because he didn’t want to worry me, she told herself. She had been ill and was suffering enough already. He had wanted to protect her. Her heart was filled with love and compassion at the thought. She longed to be with her husband. To hold him in her arms and comfort him. To tell him that all hope was not lost. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that Babamoshai was being unduly pessimistic. Her husband would find a way out. Perhaps he had done so already. That was why he didn’t seem particularly affected. Even last night he had been his normal self. Preoccupied, exhausted to the bone, but not crushed or defeated. Her heart lifted a little. She took a vow. They would face this hurdle and overcome it. Husband and wife together. She would put aside her own trials and disappointments and stand by his side as a soul mate should. She would charm away his troubles with all the powers God had given her as a woman and as a wife.
She dressed, slowly, with infinite care. She scalloped her hair with the aid of a damp gamchha, braided it in strands of seven, and wound it in an intricate khonpa. She starred the khonpa with diamond flowers and hung the jewelled tikli over her brow. Her brocade jacket was loose for her wasted form and she took in the sides with a needle and matching thread. Then, after her sari had been draped and her jewels in place, she outlined her eyes with kohl and fixed a glittering teep between her brows. Standing before the mirror she examined herself from head to toe. She turned this way and that and was satisfied. This was the effect she wanted. Yes, this was it. Did she look a little stark? The eyes too large and dark? The mouth too pale? She popped a couple of paans in her mouth. The juice would redden her lips. And, yes, she needed some perfume. Running to her closet, she drew out the bottle of French scent and doused her breast and armpits liberally.
‘You… you look different, Natun Bou rani.’ Bini stared at her mistress.
‘Good different or bad different?’ Kadambari pursed her lips and smiled.
‘G-good different.’
It was ten minutes to six. Kadambari sat on the leather armchair and waited. Bini sat on the floor, at her feet, yawning widely. ‘What’s wrong with you, Bini?’ Kadambari asked after a while. ‘Do you feel tired?’
‘I’m a bit feverish, Natun Bou rani,’ Bini replied, then added with a laugh, ‘My back and legs are so stiff, I wish a pack of dogs would chew them up.’
‘Since when? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It isn’t that bad. I’ll go and lie down as soon as Natun Babu comes.’
‘He’ll be here any minute. You go to your room and rest. On the way out tell them in the tosha khana to light the lamps in my room.’
‘Oh no. The house is absolutely empty. What if you need something? If you feel ill?’
Kadambari insisted that she felt perfectly well and would require nothing. Then, by alternate coaxing and commanding, she persuaded the reluctant Bini to go to her room. After she left, Kadambari picked up Rabindranath’s Chhobi o Gaan and turned its pages idly. Many of the songs were familiar. She had heard her brother-in-law sing them in the house in Sudder Street. The armchair was soft and comfortable; the words of the songs evoked a gentle nostalgia. A slow, sweet languor passed over Kadambari’s limbs and she yawned softly. Why am I yawning? She laughed at herself. Mukhpuri Bini must have passed on her bug. What time was it? She glanced at the crystal clock that sat on her husband’s desk. Twenty minutes past six. He’d better hurry or the tide will run out, she thought. Rising, she went to the mirror. Tucking a strand of straying hair back into her khonpa, she straightened her teep and pinched her cheeks to give them some colour. Then she came and sat in her chair again. ‘Six o’clock can’t mean six o’clock exactly,’ she muttered to herself. ‘He’s been delayed a little. But it’s only a matter of minutes now.’ She picked up her book once again…
Suddenly she realized that she had fallen asleep. The book had slipped from her hands and fallen to the floor. Her head was lolling against the black leather. ‘O ma!’ she exclaimed. ‘What happened to me?’ She glanced at the clock. Seven thirty-five. Oi jah! she thought He’s been caught up in some last-minute work and the tide has run out. But, still, she did not give up hope. He would come by the overland route. It was much longer but he would come. He had promised her. He would never, never let her down. Not on an occasion like this. A series of images passed before her eyes. Jyotirindranath, looking quite unlike his suave, debonair self, was running here and there, attending to the many calls on his attention, muttering all the while, ‘I must go to fetch Natun Bou. I promised her. No matter what happens I must go.’ Jyotirindra sneaking out of the ship when no one was looking and slipping stealthily into his carriage. Urging the coachman to drive as fast as he could to Jorasanko. ‘I have to fetch your Natun Bou rani,’ she heard him say, ‘and return with her before the guests start arriving.’ But would that be possible? Even if he came within the next five minutes and they started out immediately afterwards they wouldn’t reach before ten o’clock. Kadambari shrugged off the thought. Some guests would have arrived but so what? The party would go on till the small hours. Kadambari ran to the window and flung it open. She leaned out, her ears cocked to hear the sound of the carriage pass through the gate. She would run down the moment she heard the first creak of the wheels so that not a fraction of a second was lost.
Poor Kadambari! The reality was totally out of sync with her imaginings. Even as she leaned out of the window, her senses strained to hear the first sound of the carriage in which her Prince Charming would be carrying her off to Wonderland, Jyotirindranath and Jnanada were standing, side by side, at the head of the carpeted steps that led to the moon-washed deck. They made a striking pair as they stood together, Jyotirindra in a gorgeous emerald and gold jobba; Jnanada resplendent in black and silver, with diamonds blazing from her ears and throat. There were flowers everywhere, lights, and the tinkle of glass and cr
ystal came floating on the air.
Suddenly, Rabindranath came hurrying up the steps, his face flushed and agitated. Pressing close to his brother, he hissed in his ear, ‘The family carriages have arrived. Everyone from Jorasanko is here but not Natun Bouthan.’
‘She hasn’t come?’ Jyotirindranath turned his head sharply. ‘Why not?’
‘Sejo Bouthan says you promised to fetch her yourself. She’s all dressed and waiting for you.’
‘Sarbanash!’ Jyotirindra’s face went white and he bit his lip. It was true. He had promised his wife that he would come for her. And that, too, only last night. How could he have forgotten? ‘Y-yes,’ he stammered, desperate to put up a defence. ‘I-I promised but… but I couldn’t. You’ve seen how it has been all day. I couldn’t spare a moment.’
‘But you promised her.’ Rabindranath’s voice had an edge to it. ‘She’s all alone in an empty house. If you couldn’t go, you should have told me. I didn’t even know you had promised.’
‘It’s too late now to argue about it,’ Jnanada’s voice rose above Rabindranath’s. ‘She should have known that it wasn’t possible for Natun to go all the way only to bring her. She should have come with the others.’
‘But Jyoti dada promised her’
‘One can’t always keep one’s promises.’
‘I could take one of the carriages and go. Shall I?’
‘Are you mad? It’s nearly eight o’clock. It will take you two and a half hours to reach Jorasanko and another two and a half to return. It will be one o’clock and the party will be over.’ Then, glancing at the two troubled faces, she said in a consoling way, ‘It’s all for the best. She has been ill and it is probably better for her to stay at home and rest tonight. Standing around and talking to so many people would have fatigued her. I tell you what, Robi, start off tomorrow morning, as early as you can, and bring her. She can spend a quiet, peaceful day on the river.’
‘I’ll go with Robi,’ Jyotirindra said.
‘How can you go?’ Jnanada frowned at her brother-in law. ‘All the tradespeople will be here tomorrow morning to wrap up and settle their bills. Who’ll deal with them?’
‘Hunh,’ Jyotirindranath grunted.
‘It’s settled then.’ Jnanada put a hand on Jyotirindra’s shoulder. ‘Robi will leave, first thing in the morning, and bring Natun Bou.’
Kadambari stood at the window, her eyes fixed on the dimly lighted street beyond the stretch of trees. Any moment, any moment now, she would hear the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the majestic roll of her husband’s phaeton. She stood almost on tiptoe, poised for flight. She would dart out of the room and down the stairs, reaching the porch even as the horses came cantering in. Hours passed. Carriages came and went. She heard the sounds grow louder, then fade away as they drove past the Tagore mansion. She waited for what seemed an aeon. And all the while she went on muttering, ‘He’ll come for me. He must. He promised…’
The scent of bakul came floating up from a tree in the garden. She leaned out of the window, her elbows on the sill. She could see the tree. A huge glassy moon, dappled with silver, was drifting between its branches. The blossoms, tossed about by a light wind, were falling to the ground in showers of tiny stars. She inhaled deeply. How beautiful the night was! An ideal night for the celebrations being held in her husband’s ship. She had worn the peacock silk because the colour would look lovely in the moonlight…
Suddenly, her thoughts were broken by the cry of a cuckoo. Why was it calling at this time of night? Was its brain and body fevered like her own? Kuhu… u… Kuhu… u. The sweet shrill cry echoed and re-echoed in her ears. And then it stopped… just as suddenly as it had begun. The last strain faded away and the night was silent once more.
She stood where she was for a long time. After a while she noticed that her strained senses had relaxed and she was crooning to herself. What was she singing? She crinkled her eyes trying to remember the words. Slowly, a memory pushed its way up from dim, dusty layers. An evening spent with Robi on the roof of the house in Sudder Street, Robi humming a tune, a phrase over and over again. Sakha hé, the words came to her now, elé na. It had been just such a night. Robi had told her she was his muse. That he couldn’t write without seeing her face. She remembered the whole song now. He had written it a year later, had sung it to her: Sahé na jaatana…
Unbearable this anguish, this lonesome counting of days.
This passing of the hours gazing on your path.
You come not, my friend.
The day wanes as does the night; all things wane, only I remain,
strength ebbed from limbs; eyes robbed of sleep,
tears dried on lashes, hopes wilted and withered… But alas!
You come not, my friend.
‘Nah!’ She turned from the window at last. ‘I’ve waited long enough.’ She spoke the words aloud, her voice light and casual. ‘It’s very late… time I went to sleep.’ And then she thought. What sleep? Tossing and turning on hot fevered sheets? Shivering and sweating with nightmares? No. She was very, very tired and needed a deep restful sleep in which there were no spurts of waking, no fearful dreams. A blessed ceasing, upon the night, like the cuckoo’s call…
She walked to the door and locked it. Then, entering the anteroom where her closet stood, she took out her jewel box. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she opened it and drew out the twist of white paper in which she had kept the pellets of opium Bishu had given her. She had often been tempted to take one or two but had conquered the temptation. Bishu had warned her that they were addictive and, if taken too often, might cause death.
She was about to tilt them into her palm when her eyes fell on the green missives peeping from under a pile of gold. She pulled them out with an impatient hand and started reading them one by one. She had read them so often before, she knew them by heart. Yet she was careful not to miss a word. And as she read, her heart lifted. She wasn’t disturbed by them anymore. They were just words scrawled untidily on pieces of paper. They meant nothing to her. They had lost their power. Smiling, she flung them aside and, tossing the balls of opium into her mouth, she swallowed them with water. Then she lay down ready to go to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. She tossed about restlessly. ‘Mukhpuri Bishu,’ she muttered indignantly, ‘took four silver rupees and gave me some rubbish that doesn’t work. Wait till I catch her. I’ll give her such a tongue lashing she’ll run, squealing, to her Deyashini Ma. Deyashini Ma indeed!’ She rose agitatedly from the bed, swayed, and almost fell. She realized, then, that her surmise was wrong. The opium was working. Sleep would come… very soon now.
Suddenly, a thought struck her. She ought to write a letter to her husband before going to sleep or he would think she was still waiting for him. She should have done it earlier, before her head felt so light, but it didn’t matter. There was plenty of time. She wove her way to the desk and drew a sheet of paper from the drawer. She dipped the quill in ink, spilling some on the page. How was she to address him? Her mother had taught her to use the term Sricharaneshu – at thy gracious feet – and she had done so in all the letters she had written to him all these years. But today, her mind scoffed at the address. It was silly. Too archaic and formal. My husband, she wrote, then, frowning a little, added a quick rush of words: I have waited for you all my life. Through childhood, adolescence and youth. And now, when my days are running out, I’m still waiting. I’m weary, too weary to wait any longer. Forgive me my lack of patience. Your errant wife, Kadambari.
Tucking the sheet under a pile of books, she looked up. As she did so, her eyes fell on a portrait hanging just above the desk. A small head and shoulders, in oils, painted by her husband about ten years ago. She was puzzled. It had been hanging in her room but she hadn’t noticed it in years. Why was that? She peered at it, closely, as though seeing it for the first time. A sweet, oval face framed by the red border of a simple cotton sari. Sindoor glowing from the parting and between the winged brows. A slim brown hand raised to one ch
eek.
And then something… a voice within her willed her to turn around and look into the mirror. ‘You’ve seen the way you were,’ it whispered maliciously. ‘Now see yourself as you really are.’ As though mesmerized, Kadambari turned to the mirror and looked at her reflection with blurred, opium-ridden eyes.
This wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her. She, Kadambari, couldn’t be wearing that flamboyant peacock colour and the ornate, flashy jewels. The strange woman in the mirror, with her long, ghost-like face, kohl-smudged eyes and cracked, paan-stained lips was someone else. Someone she knew yet didn’t know. Who could she be? Suddenly, Kadambari had the answer. Golapi. Her husband had said she looked somewhat like her.
Kadambari’s head was reeling. She gripped a bedpost with both hands and shut her eyes. And now she remembered, dimly, as if from one of her dreams, that it was she who had picked out the ugly, gold-encrusted sari and gaudy jewels, with her own hands. Ignoring the expression in Bini’s eyes, she had scalloped her hair, darkened her eyes with kohl and stained her mouth a fiery scarlet with paan juice. She had turned herself into Golapi. Why? To seduce her husband? A murderous rage, such as she had never known in her life, rose in her breast and set her blood on fire. ‘Whore!’ she shrieked. Picking up the heavy crystal clock from her husband’s desk, she flung it at the mirror with all the strength she had in her enfeebled arm. She heard the clash of glass on glass, saw the enormous cobweb of cracks, and laughed as the shards fell in ones and twos, then in an avalanche, to the floor.
And now the reeling in Kadambari’s head died away and her eyes closed. Her limbs felt heavy and numb like wet velvet. Shadows were gathering around her. Warm comforting shadows… her fingers were losing their grip. The time has come, she thought, I’ll lie down on the bed and go to sleep. But, even as she thought this, her body was racked by a series of violent jerks and fell crashing to the floor. She heard a loud crack. It was her head splitting on the marble. A trickle of blood, warm, wet and sticky, crept down her neck. Tears, slow and heavy as drops of oil, fell from her eyes and mixed with the blood on the floor…
Jorasanko Page 30