‘All right, all right,’ Rabindranath said hastily. ‘Don’t cry, Chhoto Bou. No, not Chhoto Bou. And not Chhutki. What shall I call you then? Ah! I have the perfect name. Chhuti!’
‘Why Chhuti?’ Mrinalini wiped her cheeks and looked up.
‘Because you are a lazy little girl. Every day is a holiday for you. All you do is play with your dolls and’
‘That’s not true,’ Mrinalini interrupted forcefully. ‘I go to school.’ She commenced ticking off her daily activities on her fingers. ‘I take lessons from Vidyabagishmoshai. I learn cooking. I translate extracts for Bolu. And you teach me to’
‘Enough!’ Her husband stemmed the flow. ‘I was wrong. You work very hard indeed. Much harder than I do. But I’ll call you Chhuti all the same. It’s a sweet name and it suits you. What do you say, Chhuti?’ Mrinalini swayed her head in agreement, then, calling out to her maid Darshani, she took the doll from her breast and handed it over. ‘I’ve bathed and fed him,’ she said. ‘Now take him to the garden for a while so that he gets some fresh air. Wrap him up well. There’s a chill wind blowing and he catches cold easily.’
Darshani took the doll from her little mistress with a smirk. Then, with a wink at Rabindranath who still sat sprawled on the floor, she left the room.
Mrinalini grew up fast. One day she was a child playing with her dolls and the next, as it seemed to everyone in the house, she had become a woman. She gained height and her form filled out. The big drooping cheeks disappeared and her face, which had once seemed too large for the rest of her, acquired a balance. It was a plain but arresting face with a high forehead, square jaws, serene eyes and a wide, generous mouth.
One afternoon, Rabindranath walked into his room to find Mrinalini lying prone on the bed, scribbling something on a slate. Books and notepaper were strewn all over the bed and the floor. ‘What are you doing, Chhuti?’ he asked curiously.
Mrinalini looked up. Her eyes were crinkled with concentration and beads of sweat stood out on her brow. ‘I’m translating a verse from Ritusamhara. Bolu set me this task before going to school and said he would check it on his return. But it’s very, very difficult.’
Rabindranath’s mouth curled in a smile. Bolu had found an apt pupil, it seemed, and both were taking their lessons seriously. ‘Put it away for a moment,’ he said, ‘and listen to me.’
‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Mejo Bouthan is going to Sholapur next month. She has invited us to join her.’
A shadow came over Mrinalini’s face. ‘But… but,’ she stammered, ‘I have school and…’
‘All schools will remain closed for a month,’ her husband said, ‘for Durga Puja. How are Bibi and Suren going otherwise?’ Mrinalini bit her lip. She opened her mouth to say something but her husband forestalled her. ‘That’s settled then,’ he said and was about to leave the room when he remembered that he had another message for her. ‘O! I nearly forgot,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s an exhibition at the Museum tomorrow. Mejo Bouthan is going with Bibi and wants to take you along. “Poor Chhoto Bou!’’ she said. “She’s seen nothing of the city as yet. Tell her to be ready by two o’clock.”’ Then, totally clueless as to what his young wife thought of the invitation, he walked out of the room.
Whatever her feelings about the proposed outing, Mrinalini got ready, punctually, that afternoon. Though a young bride and a daughter-in-law of the wealthy Tagores of Jorasanko, she dressed very simply as a rule. She had heard her husband say, once, that he preferred simplicity in dress and, being a good little wife, was determined to honour his wishes. In consequence she wore ordinary cotton saris most of the time, and very little jewellery. It wasn’t that she didn’t have any. Her father had given her practically nothing but her mother-in-law had left a casket full of jewels for her in which there were some priceless pieces from Dwarkanath’s collection. But she kept them all locked away and went around with only a pair of balas on her wrists and a scorpion chain around her neck. The elderly ladies of the house scolded her and urged her to wear more. But she shook her head. ‘I have so many grown-up nephews,’ she said serenely. ‘What will they think if they see their aunt dolled up like a young girl?’ The fact that she was a young girl and that the boys of the house were used to seeing their mothers and aunts in heavy saris and ornaments cut no ice with her.
That afternoon, as she sat dressed and waiting for Jnanadanandini’s carriage, Rabindranath came into the room. He had a plate of sweets in his hand. Tossing a sandesh into his mouth he rolled his eyes at Mrinalini and smiled appreciatively. She was wearing a yellow sari with a narrow red and gold embroidered border and a pair of jewelled birboulis hung from her ears. She looked almost pretty. Throwing her a mischievous glance he began singing, Dheere dheere praane amaar esho he / madhur hashiye bhalobesho he – Slowly, oh, slowly come into my heart / Sweetly smiling, oh, give me your love – softly at first, then in a full-throated voice, so deep and melodious that Mrinalini’s sisters-in-law crowded at the door to see what was going on. Her face flushed with embarrassment, clapping her hands to her ears, Mrinalini tore off the birboulis, threw them on the bed and ran out of the room.
Despite her apprehensions about spending a whole month in Jnanadanandini’s house, Mrinalini enjoyed her stay. Her brother-in-law, Satyendranath Tagore, commanded immense prestige and respect in the whole province as judge of its two most important cities, Bijapur and Sholapur. He lived in a huge, beautifully furnished house surrounded by fine gardens. It was in this house that Mrinalini first saw the work of the painter Raja Ravi Varma. She looked on with wonder at the paintings with which the walls of the parlour and dining room were hung. Shakuntala, Subhadra and Arjun, and Harishchandra, subjects made familiar to her through her study of Sanskrit texts. She had seen the paintings of her nieces and nephews of Baithak Khana Bari but they paled in comparison. The Raja’s colours were so rich, they gleamed like gems! And the light was like real light. ‘How does a painter paint light?’ she asked Bibi once but, as was to be expected, she did not get a satisfactory answer. Bibi was the same age as herself and, though more knowledgeable and sophisticated, had no notion of painting techniques.
It was also here that Mrinalini really got to know her brotherin-law. She had seen him only once or twice before and been overawed by his personality and position as Judge Saheb. Now, for the first time, she saw his human side. He loved his garden and attended to it every morning, before leaving for the court. Mrinalini watched him from the bedroom window, giving instructions to the gardeners, stopping now and then to pick a ripe tomato or a tender cucumber from the frames and pop it straight into his mouth. If Mejo Didi catches him, Mrinalini thought in amusement, he’ll be in deep trouble. Jnanada had a horror of dirt and germs and insisted on getting all the garden produce that was brought into the house thoroughly washed, then eating it in a civilized way with a knife and fork.
He was also very fond of animals. Mrinalini, with her nurturing temperament, loved this aspect of Satyendranath’s character. There were dogs in the house, rabbits, cages full of birds and a little hog deer which pranced around him and ate bunches of tender grass and leaves from his hands. And his management of his finances made her roll over with mirth. Being very thrifty and housewifely herself, she was shocked by it and amused at the same time. Satyendra kept all his money in a box by an open window. The box was locked but the key was kept, invitingly, on the lid. Almost as if he was begging the thief to come and help himself. And whenever he needed money he would shout in his inimitable Hindi to the servants, ‘Aiee! baksa lao! chabi lao!’ Mrinalini saw this and was open mouthed with wonder. The people of Sholapur must be very honest, she thought. If Mejo Thakur was living in Jorasanko…
Mrinalini’s days in Sholapur flew by on golden wings. Jnanadanandini was an excellent hostess and worked hard to give her guests a good time. She arranged so many outings, picnics and shopping expeditions and gave her young sister-in-law so many presents that much of Mrinalini’s awe and fear of her faded away and she w
as happier than she had been in a long time. It was here, in Sholapur, that Mrinalini noticed a change come over her husband. He seemed lighter-hearted than he had been in Jorasanko and didn’t spend so much time poring over his books. He went for long walks with Bibi, played tennis with Suren and regaled everyone with his singing, in the evenings, with Bibi accompanying him on the piano. After his sister-in-law’s death, he had sat in their apartment, day after day, his face pale and tense, talking to no one, writing furiously. Some of the older women of Jorasanko had told her that he had been very fond of the dead woman and was shattered by her death. They advised her to take great care of him and help him overcome his grief. Mrinalini understood and sympathized wholeheartedly. Remembering Kadambari’s kindness to her, she was shocked and saddened by her tragic death. How much more must he, who had known her from the age of seven, be suffering? She longed to comfort him, to wipe his pain away. But how was she to do so? He hardly spoke to her and, when he did, it was in a light, bantering tone as if she was a child.
There was a lot about her husband that puzzled her but this was the most puzzling of all. Why did he treat her like a child? She was not a child. Her friends in Phooltala, married at the age of eight or nine, had many stories to tell of how their husbands murmured sweet endearments in their ears, kissed and caressed them, and sulked if they delayed coming to bed. Mrinalini was twelve and had started menstruating months ago. She was a woman. But her husband showed no interest in her. Was it because she was plain and he didn’t like her? She pushed the thought away. It was too painful. But it came unbidden every now and then, and her heart grew heavy with anxiety and fear.
One night, a week or so before they were to go back to Kolkata, Mrinalini came into her room to find it in total disarray. Books and papers were littered all over the bed and some had drifted down to the floor. Sighing, she began tidying up. Picking up a book, she saw that it was titled Prakritir Pratishodh. She was about to put it away when it fell open at the dedication. To you… Her face grew pale and she bit her lip. She knew who the you was. Pausing a few moments, she started collecting the loose sheets strewn on the bed. They were proofs of her husband’s latest manuscript, a collection of lyrics called Shaishab Sangeet. He had brought them with him from Kolkata, and had been working on them that afternoon. She went through the sheets, one by one, and found what she was looking for. I used to sit by your side and write my poems, the dedication read. You were the first to read them. You will still be the first, for my poems will reach you wherever you are. Mrinalini sat with the papers on her lap for a long time. Then, hearing footsteps outside the door, she rose hastily and took them to her husband’s desk. Rabindranath saw her as he came in and said with a touch of embarrassment in his voice, ‘I know I left the room in a terrible mess. But does it have to be made spick and span in the middle of the night? What a scrupulous little housewife you are Chhuti! Couldn’t you wait till morning?’
‘I’m almost done,’ Mrinalini said softly. Then, finishing her work, she went and lay down on her side of the bed. Her eyes stung sharply and tears fell slowly on the pillow. Rabindranath’s gaze was on her as she put his books and papers away. She did her work slowly and methodically in her usual way. Her face was serene enough yet the expression in it disturbed him. Was she unhappy? Why? Had Mejo Bouthan said something? That was highly unlikely. Mejo Bouthan was making a great fuss over her. Plying her with all sorts of tasty titbits young girls liked to eat. Giving her quantities of presents. Bibi was a bit standoffish, it was true, but that couldn’t be the reason. Mrinalini seemed happy enough on her own. She spent her days pottering about in the house and garden, feeding the birds and rabbits and caressing the doe. She even sneaked into the kitchen when Jnanadanandini wasn’t looking, and chatted with the khansama and took recipes from him. What could be the matter?
‘Chhuti!’ he called softly.
‘Hunh?’
‘Is something wrong? Has someone hurt your feelings?’
There was no reply. Mrinalini lay with her back to him, her face to the wall. She looked very young and vulnerable, her sari pulled neatly down to her feet, her long plait resting on the pillow. ‘Chhuti!’ He bent over her and touched her face. He felt her tears, warm, on his hand, and was shocked. ‘What is the matter?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Why are you crying?’ At these words a sob, long suppressed, rose from Mrinalini’s chest and her body trembled like a leaf. Rabindranath stared at her, his eyes wide with consternation. And, suddenly, he felt overwhelmed with guilt. She’s so gentle, he thought, so easily intimidated. She’s unhappy in my home and I, her husband, don’t know why.
Turning her over to face him, he felt his heart swell with compassion. ‘What’s wrong, my little one?’ he murmured tenderly. ‘What have I done?’ Taking her wet face in both his hands, he wiped the tears away. Then, before he knew what he was doing, he touched his mouth to hers. Mrinalini gasped and, putting out her strong young arms, twined them around his neck. Her tear-brushed lips, soft, damp, with a salty tang, clung to his with passion.
And now Rabindranath’s long, sensitive fingers left her face and passed over her neck, her newly swelling breasts, soft abdomen and gently burgeoning hips. Suddenly he heard a sound. It was like a sigh rising in the air then dying away. He raised his head sharply. A shadow slipped past the wall. Whose was it? Kadambari’s? Natun Bouthan, he almost called aloud, then trembled and fell silent. Mrinalini’s eyes were on him, moist, tender, filled with an eager longing. To hell with shadows, he thought, it’s the living who matter. Bringing his mouth purposefully down on hers, he let it graze down her throat then rest in the warm hollow between her breasts. As the two young bodies throbbed against each other, moonlight streamed in from the open window, bathing them in light. Fragments of a poem, as yet unwritten, flashed into Rabindranath’s mind as he gently unwound the sari from Mrinalini’s limbs and proceeded to unbutton her jacket.
Cast off your garment
Strip the veil away from your face
Wear only the beauty of your nakedness.
Girl goddess! Wrap yourself in moonbeams
Through whose clear light is visible
The unfolding lotus of your corporeal form…
II
It was the month of November. The zamindar’s bajra was anchored in the river on the opposite bank from Shilaidaha. The dark-blue dome of a sky from which all traces of autumn cloud had vanished hung over a vast desolate expanse where nothing grew, no birds sang and there was no sign of human habitation. In places the sand gleamed like water, creating the illusion of being part of the river. In places it was marked by furrows of moist dark earth. An empty sky, a hazy river and an infinite stretch of sandy shore met the eyes as far as they could see.
The light of a winter day was ebbing fast and shadows were falling over land and water. Rabindranath was sitting on the deck of the boat, trying to read a book by the failing light. He was touring his father’s vast estates, scattered all over the eastern part of Bengal, and collecting the rents. Accompanying him were his family, his nephew Balendranath and some trusty servants.
That hoary patriarch, Debendranath Tagore, had had to fall back on this youngest son of his after all the others had failed him. Two of them, his fourth and sixth, were insane. His eldest, Dwijendranath, was a scholar and philosopher, so divorced from reality that he could not be trusted with any work, leave alone something as down to earth as dealing with the tenants and officials of the estate. His second was a busy civil servant. His third was dead and his fifth, the one in whom he had reposed his highest hopes, had disappointed him most bitterly. His handsome, brilliant, talented Jyoti, whose name had seemed synonymous with his personality, was a crushed, ruined man. After his disastrous handling of his shipping business and the monumental crash that followed, he had crept, like a hunted animal, under the protection of his second brother’s wife. She was a strong, resourceful woman and had not only pulled him out of his trauma, but had managed to pay off his debts. She had done this under the adv
ice and guidance of her husband’s old friend, the barrister Taraknath Palit. Debendranath was grateful to her for having saved the family’s honour but couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive his son. He had warned him, over and over again, not to rush from one business to another, without learning the ropes, but the boy had disregarded his advice. Not only that – he was guilty of loose, immoral behaviour. Whenever Debendranath remembered the letters lying scattered on his son’s bed – letters which, he was convinced, lay at the root of his daughterin-law’s suicide – his heart hardened towards his erstwhile favourite. Let him lick his wounds under the sheltering wings of his Mejo Bouthan, he thought scornfully. I’ll have nothing more to do with him.
His youngest son, Rabindranath, was a celebrated writer. Essentially a poet and a lyricist, his head should have been up in the clouds. But, strangely enough, it wasn’t. There was a streak of pragmatism in him, an ability to interact with different classes of people and take practical decisions. He was a born administrator. Debendranath had sensed this quality in him from an early age…
The boat in which Rabindranath and his family were travelling from estate to estate, though neither large nor lavishly appointed, was filled with all the comforts a young family needed, thanks to the planning and foresight of his wife Mrinalini. Sacks of long-grained rice and fragrant dal; jars full of ghee, oil and spices; tins of condensed milk, butter, cheese and jam; cartons of biscuits and baskets of apples, oranges and pineapples were stocked in the larder. The cabins had enough pillows, mattresses, sheets and blankets to take care of a dozen guests and Mrinalini’s wooden chests contained soap, cream, camphor, tooth powder and Hazeline Snow in sufficient quantities to last them the entire winter. Freshly caught fish and crabs and handpicked vegetables and greens were bought from the villages they passed on their journey and cooked on the bank. Though every estate had a kuthi, a residence for the zamindar, the young couple preferred to eat and sleep on the boat. With Mrinalini taking care of all the arrangements, Rabindranath had never been so comfortable in his life.
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