Satyendra and Loken were amazed when Rabindranath broke the news. ‘Why?’ Satyendranath asked his brother in a puzzled voice. ‘We meant to spend three months and it isn’t even three weeks. We’ve seen nothing of Europe yet. Are you worried about your wife? I had a letter from your Mejo Bouthan yesterday. Everyone is hale and hearty, she writes, including Babamoshai.’
Rabindranath had no answer but he didn’t abandon his plan. Two months later he was in Jorasanko.
Rabindranath’s third child, a daughter, was born soon after his return on the auspicious occasion of Maghotsav. A pale, spent Mrinalini, lying in the birthing chamber, saw a shadow fall across the threshold and looked up. It was her husband. Ignoring the midwife’s clamorous warning, he strode in and went straight up to his wife. Sitting beside her, he gazed into her face intently. The marks of her travail were etched on her face.
‘How do you feel, Chhuti?’ he asked gently, taking her small brown hand in his long white one.
Mrinalini turned her eyes from her husband to the tiny creature lying swaddled in a kantha in the crook of her arm. ‘I am well,’ she said. ‘Do you like your new daughter?’
Rabindranath smiled at the puckered, angry little face which was all he could see and answered, ‘She looks as though she could kill me! But, yes, I like her. I like her very much.’
‘I’m glad.’ Mrinalini breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I thought you would be disappointed.’
‘Why? Because she’s a girl? Don’t you know I love little girls? More so when they are mine? Why do you think I married her mother?’ Then, gently pushing away the tendrils of hair that clung to Mrinalini’s damp brow and temples, he continued, ‘When I was in England I missed you, Beli and Rathi so much that I took a vow. I promised myself that in future we, that is, you, I and our children, would be a family.’
‘But we are a family.’ Mrinalini looked at her husband with puzzled eyes.
‘Yes. But we aren’t together all the time. I go off on my own, leaving you behind. From now on I’ll take you all with me wherever I go. What do you think of that?’
‘The children will be delighted.’
‘And you?’
‘I too,’ Mrinalini said shyly then hastened to add, ‘but we mustn’t become a burden on you. Your work mustn’t suffer. Babamoshai depends on you.’
‘It won’t.’ Patting his little daughter’s cheek, he rose and left the room.
Mrinalini lay on her bed, mulling over what her husband had said. She had a gentle, placid nature and a mind not given to deep thought or analysis. She loved her husband with the total unconditional surrender bred into her through the blood of generations of her foremothers. She neither questioned his actions nor complained. Yet she was aware of a gap in their relationship, a distance which, her sixth sense told her, should have been bridged in the seven years of their marriage. She accepted that she was no match for him. He was brilliant and famous and she was a simple, housewifely creature with little education and even less exposure to the world of which he was the cynosure. The best that she could do was to take care of his physical needs and give birth to and nurture his children. She strove hard to carry out her duties as perfectly as possible but, in her heart, she knew that what she did was not enough. He needed someone different from her. An intelligent, cultured woman, sensitive to the arts, with whom he could share all his thoughts and whom he could treat as a friend.
Her sister-in-law Kadambari had been one such woman. Living in Jorasanko, it hadn’t taken Mrinalini long to discover that her husband had shared a special relationship with her. Stories of their intimacy had been poured into her ears from the time she was old enough to understand the implications. He thought of her still. She knew that. Every year, just before Kadambari’s death anniversary, Mrinalini noticed a change come over her husband. He was restless and disturbed. He spoke little, shut himself up in his room and wrote furiously; sometimes the whole night. Striding out to the terrace from time to time, he would stand gazing at the sky, then come back to his writing table, leaving it only at dawn. Once or twice she had seen him look up sharply from his writing, his brow furrowed, his whole body tensed, as though he felt someone’s presence in the room. She knew, instinctively, that it was a visitation from his Natun Bouthan. But, for some reason, the thought didn’t frighten her. She had heard the details of Kadambari’s unhappy life and death, and her heart was filled with empathy. If the tortured, wounded spirit of the dead woman was struggling to make contact with the brother-in-law she loved, so be it.
Well, Kadambari was gone these many years and was, at best, a shadow. But – Mrinalini’s heart beat faster at the thought – had Bibi taken her place? Bibi was all that she was not. Beautiful, accomplished, intellectual. The women of Jorasanko were constantly gossiping about the two, making sure that some of what was said reached Mrinalini’s ears. She heard of how her husband took Bibi with him to all his political meetings. How he wrote her scores of letters whenever he was away from Kolkata. He was a great letter writer and wrote to her too. She couldn’t deny that. But they were routine letters, courteous and dutiful, enquiring after her welfare and that of their children. Sometimes he shared some interesting news, comic and trivial. Sometimes he upbraided her for making him wait for her replies. But there was no romance, no passion in his letters, no yearning for her.
The baby stirred and whimpered, interrupting her train of thought. Turning her head, Mrinalini saw some drops of water glistening on the tiny brow and streaming down one temple. She realized that she was crying, had been crying for a long time, and her tears had fallen on her daughter’s face. She was frightened. A mother’s tears brought bad luck to a newborn. She had heard the elderly women of her village say that. Snatching up her anchal, she wiped them away, muttering a prayer. It was one she had heard her mother send up to the deities whenever she was sick or hurt. Hé Ma Durga! Hé Ma Kali! Keep my little one safe. May her share of ill luck fall to my lot. May not a hair of her head be harmed.
Rabindranath tried to keep the promise he had made to Mrinalini but wasn’t successful. He had to obtain his father’s permission each time he wanted to take his family out of Kolkata and the Maharshi was quite whimsical about giving or withholding it. He agreed readily enough whenever they were to go to Shilaidaha. He didn’t object even when Mrinalini travelled, without her husband, to Sholapur. But he refused, point blank, when Rabindranath asked to take his family to Orissa. It would be a long sojourn, the estates were large and scattered, and he didn’t want to leave his wife and children behind for so long in Jorasanko. Debendranath gave no reason for his objection and Rabindranath didn’t have the courage to ask for one. But he fumed inwardly. Mrinalini, he knew, would be bitterly disappointed. She had looked forward to seeing the sea, for the first time in her life, and the old temples about which she had heard so much. She was also keen on collecting unwritten narratives of the region. She had become interested in oral traditions lately and had made quite a collection of folk tales and legends prevalent in the villages of Bengal. Rabindranath was hesitant in breaking the news to her but she took it quite calmly. ‘Babamoshai must have some reason,’ she told her husband. ‘We mustn’t question his decision.’ Then, glancing at his crestfallen face, she had added, ‘Take Bolu with you.’
Balendra’s father’s insanity and his mother’s unwholesome, obsessive love hadn’t warped him in any way. He was, at this time, a quiet young man of twenty-three with a pleasing personality and a capacity for hard work despite his health which had been delicate from childhood. Unlike many of his cousins from both the houses, he was no idler or dreamer. His second cousins Gaganendra, Samarendra and Abanindra did nothing all day but paint pictures and put up home theatricals. Even their estates in Sajadpur were managed by their Robi ka. Balendra had a good head for accounts and was a great help to Rabindranath in the administration of the estate. He adored his uncle and travelled with him wherever he went. As for his aunt, the bond they had forged in childhood grew only stronger with eac
h passing day.
This year they were all in Shilaidaha together for Punyaha, a festival marking the commencement of the annual collection of rents by the zamindar. Amala, the barrister Chittaranjan Das’s sister and Mrinalini’s bosom friend, was accompanying them.
The old kuthi, situated at the fork of the two rivers Padma and Gorai, had originally belonged to an indigo planter called Mr Shelley and the area had taken its name from him. But, over the years, Shelley saheb er daha had been corrupted to Shellydaha and from thence to Shilaidaha. After the fortunes of the planters dwindled, the kuthi had been bought by Dwarkanath Tagore and been converted to an office for the management of the estates not only in Shilaidaha but Kumarkhali, Kaya, Janipur and Puntimahal. There were living quarters adjoining it in which Rabindranath and his brothers had spent many holidays as children. But the kuthi, having fallen into a decline, had been pulled down recently and a new one built in its place. Rabindranath disliked the bright, modern structure, so out of sync with the surrounding landscape. He remembered, with nostalgia, the old dark shadowy rooms with their sweetish mouldy odour, the huge gardens buried in trees, and the vast stone vats that had once been filled with indigo, lying broken and abandoned under the bamboo clumps. He missed it all so much he couldn’t bear to live in the new kuthi which he looked upon as an usurper. He preferred to stay on the boat in full view of the river which had swelled with the monsoon rains and acquired a wild, wondrous beauty.
‘Robi ka!’ Bolu, who was waiting with the nayeb on the bank on the morning of the Punyaha, was astonished to see his uncle emerge from the boat dressed in an ordinary dhuti and jobba. ‘Your… your outfit!’
‘I’ve decided to dispense with all that.’ Rabindranath waved his hand. ‘And the palki too. I shall walk.’ The official costume of the zamindar, from his grandfather’s time, consisted of silk trousers, brocade shirt, nagras for the feet and a jewelled turban. And he had to be carried in a palki, no matter what the distance, it being demeaning to his dignity as landlord to be seen by his tenants walking along the village path like an ordinary mortal. Rabindranath had gone along with these conventions ever since he had started visiting the estates, but this year he decided to break them. He was no prince. Why should he parade about as one? Stepping into the hall, where the Punyaha was to take place, his mouth curled in amusement as he heard the guard call out: Of the long line of the illustrious Tagores of Jorasanko Sreel Sreejukto Rabindranath Mahimarnav. He would have to change that too. And several other practices that had irked him all these years.
A particularly disturbing one was the seating arrangement. It was the same everywhere, in all the estates. An immense chair, draped in brocade to resemble a throne, stood at the far end of the hall. The zamindar sat there, facing his tenants who were seated in separate sections – Muslims on pieces of sacking on one side of the hall, Hindus on the other. The latter were further divided according to caste. Brahmins sat right in front on carpets, Kayasthas and Vaidyas close behind them on dhurees and Shudras last of all, a good four feet away, on the bare floor.
‘Why these divisions, Nayebmoshai?’ Rabindranath asked loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘It has been so from the time of your grandfather, the prince. According to religion and caste…’
‘That is no reason for it to continue,’ Rabindranath replied. The nayeb stared. This youngest son of Kartamoshai had been visiting the estates for several years now. He knew how the Punyaha was conducted. Why was he objecting to the arrangements all of a sudden? The same thought passed through Rabindranath’s head and strengthened his resolve. I’ve seen these discriminations all these years and remained silent, he thought, I shall have to protest some time. Let it be now. Raising his voice he said, ‘Change the arrangements. Remove the carpets and the sacking and spread dhurees for everyone. From today there will be no segregation. People may sit wherever they like.’ Then, pointing to the chair, he added, ‘And take that away. I shall sit on the floor like everyone else.’ The horrified nayeb rushed to his side and hissed in his ear that he was setting a dangerous precedence; that chaos would prevail; that Brahmins would feel hurt and humiliated and the lower castes think themselves as good as their superiors; above all, that Kartamoshai would be grievously displeased. But Rabindranath stood firm. ‘Getting my father’s approval is my responsibility,’ he answered. ‘I stand here as his representative. As your zamindar. Obey me.’ Then, turning to the others in the room, he said, ‘I don’t believe in divisions between man and man. We are all sons of Bengal and we will sit together as brothers.’ He stood and watched calmly as some top officials of the estate and some of the Brahmins muttered their dissent and left the hall. But they were few in number. The others stared at one another for some time, then dropped down on the dhurees. The Punyaha commenced.
It was only after everything was over that Rabindranath felt his first qualm of doubt. Had he overplayed his hand? Would Babamoshai be offended? The Maharshi was conservative and generally believed that status quo was best. He might send for his son and upbraid him for upsetting a system that his grandfather, Prince Dwarkanath Tagore, had initiated, one that had worked for more than six decades. Worse, he might send a message to the nayeb to revert to the original arrangements. What a terrible humiliation that would be! The sweat broke out on Rabindranath’s brow at the thought. He longed to share his anxiety with someone, someone who would sympathize with him and tell him he was right in following his conscience. But who? Bolu? He had seen the boy’s face when he had given the order. It was pale and stricken and his eyes were wide with shock. He wouldn’t understand. Mrinalini wouldn’t either. ‘Babamoshai has run the estates for nearly fifty years,’ she would say. ‘He knows best. You shouldn’t have changed the arrangements without his permission.’ In her eyes, her father-in-law was next only to God. He could do no wrong. Besides, as Rabindranath told himself, he was an adult. He couldn’t take decisions, then look to others for reassurance and approval. It was undignified and showed weakness of purpose. No, he couldn’t share his fears with anyone. He would have to resolve them himself.
Reaching the boat, he found his children playing on the deck. Six-year-old Beli, in a red-striped sari and gold rings peeping out from behind masses of tangled curls, was cooking a meal with sand, gravel, leaves and river weeds and expatiating on its merits, to her younger brother, with quick gestures of gleaming white hands and tosses of a little black head. Unlike the solemn, silent Rathi, she was a great prattler and held him spellbound with her incessant chatter.
‘What’s cooking, Belu Ma?’ Rabindranath called out. ‘Don’t I get a share?’
‘Baba! Baba!’ The children ran to him, hugging his knees and tugging at his jobba. Sweeping Rathi up in his arms, he put a hand on his daughter’s head and rumpled her hair.
‘Where’s Ma?’ he asked his son.
‘She’s sitting with Amala didi in her room,’ Beli answered promptly in her high fluty voice. She never gave poor Rathi a chance to open his mouth when she was around. And, given to offering more information than was asked for, she added, ‘They’ve been sitting together from morning, eating paan and chatting, chatting, chatting. Baap re! How much they talk! Who knows what will become of us!’
‘You little old woman!’ Rabindranath tweaked Beli’s nose and kissed her plump cheek. He had recently written a story titled ‘Kabuliwala’. It was about a dry-fruit vendor’s love for a five-year-old Bengali girl who reminded him of the daughter he had left behind in his distant homeland of Afghanistan. The little girl of the story, the sweet, vivacious chatterbox Mini, was the spitting image of his Beli. Putting Rathi down, he walked towards his wife’s cabin and stood at the door. He stood for a full five minutes but the two friends were so wrapped up in their conversation they didn’t notice his presence. They sat on the bed, legs stretched out, a paan box between them. Amala was doing most of the talking. Mrinalini sat nodding, laughing and popping paan into her mouth. There were marks of tears on her cheeks from which her husband dedu
ced that the current merry session had been preceded by a sad one. Women unburden themselves so easily, he thought as he walked away. They share their joys and sorrows, weep and laugh with their friends all in the same breath. I wonder how they do it!
Sighing, he walked to his cabin. His heart was heavy with anxiety and he longed to talk to someone about it. For the first time in their married life together, he felt envious of Mrinalini. He wished he was a woman like her and had a girl friend, a soi in whom he could confide his deepest feelings. She would understand and sympathize, for bonding between sois was total and unconditional. O lo soi, he hummed beneath his breath, amaar ichha kare toder moto moner katha koi.
Friend, dear friend
If I could pour out like you
The thoughts that vex my soul.
If we could whisper in a corner
Legs stretched out at ease,
Now laughing, now weeping
Now staring at the eaves…
Going to his table he dashed off a long letter to Bibi.
1892–1899
I
After Sarala’s graduation, Swarnakumari tried to persuade her to enrol for a master’s degree. But Sarala had a contrary streak in her which turned inflexible the moment she came up against her mother. Dashing the latter’s hopes of seeing her daughter as one of the first female postgraduates of Calcutta University, Sarala gave up her studies altogether, taking up, instead, the editorship of Bharati which Jyotirindranath had passed on to his sister after the fiasco of his shipping business. She spent most of her time working for the journal. As for the rest she read novels, slept, wandered about in the garden and entertained the young men who flocked to the house in Kashiabagan every evening. Needless to say, these were suitors hopeful of winning her hand. Her cousin Pratibha had recently married a friend of her Roi Ma, a brilliant barrister named Ashutosh Chowdhury, newly returned from England. He had a houseful of brothers, bright young boys who were quick to take advantage of the new connection and make friends with the Tagore girls, especially Bibi and Sarala who were the smartest, prettiest and most accomplished girls of the city. Other young men from the first families of Kolkata, Loken Palit and Jogini Chatterjee among them, became regular visitors, and the evenings at Kashiabagan hummed with lively chatter, music and laughter.
Jorasanko Page 34