But that was on the outside. There were undercurrents beneath, of anger and envy, stress and rivalry which Sarala handled with extraordinary expertise. She chatted and flirted with them all, went for long walks now with one young man, now with another. She played cards and tennis, choosing and changing partners according to her whims, sang songs to them and played the piano but managed to keep all of them at bay. She had no intention of marrying anyone. At least – not yet.
This phase lasted two to three years. Then the excitement of playing one suitor against another started waning and Sarala grew restless. She decided to take up her studies once again. She would do her postgraduation, she told her parents, but not in the traditional subjects they advocated. She would study Sanskrit, the mother of Indian languages, and obtain the key to all the ancient texts. But how was she to achieve that? The MA syllabus was a vast one and her knowledge of the subject sketchy and diffuse. The Sanskrit College of Kolkata did not admit women. How would she compete with the other candidates? But Sarala was adamant. She would study at home with the help of a private tutor, the renowned Sheetalchandra Vedantabagish, and appear for the examination.
But long before it came around, Sarala had changed her mind. She was bored of studying Sanskrit, knowing in her heart that no matter how hard she worked at it she wouldn’t pass with flying colours. Her old dream of getting out of her present situation resurfaced and she longed to strike out on her own, to find employment in some other, remote part of India and make a new life there. Her parents were appalled and tried to stop her but they had never been able to control this youngest daughter of theirs. Her mother stopped talking to her. Her father begged and pleaded then, failing, said angrily, ‘Go then if you must. I can’t stop you. But understand one thing clearly. Your grandfather is the head of this family. You must obtain his consent. If he refuses…’
‘He won’t refuse,’ Sarala answered stoutly. She knew the Maharshi. He had never stood in the way of his children and grandchildren and wouldn’t do so now.
Janakinath had given his consent on the conviction that Sarala wouldn’t find employment anywhere. Who would give such a young girl a job? But here he was mistaken. Sarala hadn’t sought his permission without a firm offer. She had visited Mysore a year ago with some friends and though she hadn’t met the Maharaja, who was in Ootacamund at the time, she had been given a warm welcome by his trusted advisor, Narsingh Iyengar Bakshi, who was also the founder chairman of the Maharani Girls School. On learning that she was Debendranath Tagore’s granddaughter, he had been very kind to her and had offered his help if she ever needed it. Some days ago she had sent him a telegram: Want to serve school. Wire if opening. The reply had reached her within two days. Always opening for you. Start as soon as you like. Procuring a member of the illustrious house of the Tagores as an employee and that, too, a lady graduate was a feather in the cap of the Mysore royals.
One afternoon, Sarala came to Jorasanko and went straight to her grandfather’s room. Apprising him of the reason for her visit, she waited for his answer. The Maharshi sat silent, deep in thought, for a few minutes then asked, ‘What kind of employment are you looking for? And where?’
‘I have been offered the post of assistant superintendant of the Maharani Girls School of Mysore.’
‘Mysore! Do you have any idea of how far off that is?’
‘I do. I visited it last year. The farther from Kolkata, the better it is for me.’
‘Why so!’ Debendranath’s snow-white beard trembled with laughter. ‘You sound as though you are ready to renounce the world! What’s the matter? Has someone broken your heart?’
‘On the contrary. I’ve broken too many for my own comfort.’
‘Why? Is no one good enough for you? Loken is highly eligible. Or what about one of Ashu’s brothers? Pramatha, though a briefless barrister at the moment, is handsome…’
Sarala shook her head. A dimple flickered saucily in one cheek. ‘He asked me to marry him but I passed him on to Bibi.’
‘Why pray?’
‘She’ll make him a better wife. She likes him.’
‘Do you wish to remain unwed then? If so just let me know. I’ll have you marry a sword before you leave, like the princesses of yore.’
A thrill of excitement ran down Sarala’s spine. The idea of marrying a sword was so exciting! So full of romance and adventure! But she shook her head. She wouldn’t make any commitment either in favour of marriage or against it. She was a free soul and she would follow her own inclinations as and when the time came.
Arriving in Mysore, Sarala was charmed with everything. The temperate climate, the good-looking people and the comfortable living quarters allotted to her – a beautiful little duplex with a dining room, kitchen and parlour on the ground floor and two bedrooms with a dressing room and a bathroom on top. All the rooms were neatly papered and well furnished and the surrounding gardens laid out with sandalwood trees and a variety of flowering shrubs and creepers. She liked the school too. The students were mostly adult women, many of them married and older than her. In their fine silk saris, diamond nose and ear studs and gold, glass and pearl bangles, they were like a flock of exotic, brightly plumaged birds. But they were conscientious, keen to learn their lessons, and very respectful of their new mistress.
Sarala had come to teach and help with the running of the school but she found herself learning a lot in the process. She discovered that she had abandoned her study of Sanskrit and come out to Mysore only to learn a better brand of the language. She realized that there were several defects in the way it was taught in Bengal. Students learned to read and write but were not encouraged to converse in Sanskrit. As a result, it remained archaic and remote in their comprehension and did not become a living language. Secondly, it was taught in the Bengali alphabet and not in Devnagari which made the pronunciation fairly appalling. When Narsingh Iyengar Bakshi took Sarala with him to the Sanskrit College of Mysore and asked her to recite a few shlokas from the Vedas it was a disaster. The teachers, all male, were indignant at this invasion of their domain by a mere woman and sniggered at her accent. They made their contempt of her and her knowledge of Sanskrit so obvious that the poor girl withdrew, blushing to the roots of her hair. But her spirit was sturdy and would not be subdued. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, she took it up as a challenge. She would learn Sanskrit properly and be as good, if not better, than those sneering men. The principal of the college encouraged her and offered to become her tutor.
But, like always, the charm of the unknown and unfamiliar faded in a couple of months and she started to get bored. Life was pleasant here but too slow and monotonous. She started missing the throb and hum of the Kolkata streets, the crowds, and the noise and excitement during festival times. She yearned to hear the beating of the drums during Durga Puja and the shouts of the mourners carrying the Taziya on Muharrum. She missed the Christmas decorations and the warm delicious smells of roasting turkey, hot bread and spiced puddings. She missed the parties, the tennis and, yes, she missed her admirers. She was homesick, desperately homesick, for her native city.
Then, one night, something happened that frightened even stout-hearted Sarala. There were a couple of houses opposite hers, one of which was occupied by a man in his thirties. He was the son of a contractor and was a worthless wastrel always on the lookout for attractive women. He had seen Sarala several times and was fascinated by her beauty and personality. And, being under the impression that he could get whatever he wanted, he decided to force himself upon her.
It being a warm night, Sarala’s maid had spread a mat on the landing, in the hope of catching some cool air, and was fast asleep when she felt someone tread over her arm. She woke up shrieking with pain and fright. Sarala heard her and came running out of her room. ‘What’s the matter, ayah?’ she cried. ‘Why are you screaming your head off?’
‘A man! A man!’ The woman set up a terrible clamour. ‘He stepped on my arm. See.’ She showed her mistress a large purple bru
ise and continued, ‘He’s in the house. He’s locked himself in your dressing room.’
Sarala ran to the veranda and called out to the guards at the gate who came running at the sound of her voice. So did some policemen from the chowki opposite. The servants woke up too and soon there was quite a small crowd. Fanning out into the house and grounds, they started looking for the intruder who, frightened by the din, tried to escape by jumping from the balcony. But he misjudged the height and fell in the bushes, breaking his leg. The police came upon him and carried him off. A case was lodged and the man was sentenced to a six-month term.
The day after the incident, the news was splashed in the local papers and, within a few days, in all the national ones through the news agency grapevine. The Kolkata journalists were quickest at picking it up and most bitter in their condemnation of her. What can you expect? the editor of Bangabashi wrote caustically, when a high-born young maiden is allowed to run wild? Why did she need to take up a job? That, too, in a place so far from her family and friends? It is nothing but a foolish imitation of European ways for which she has been justifiably punished.
Sarala was mortified but could not deny the truth of the allegations. She realized that in coming out to Mysore she had acted impulsively without giving the matter due thought. She didn’t need the money. Her father gave her a generous allowance. She had a comfortable home and freedom such as many girls of her age could only dream of. She longed to return to her old life but hesitated. She didn’t want her employers to think her capricious and irresolute. Incapable of weathering a minor hazard. Besides, she could almost hear the snide remarks waiting for her in Kolkata. ‘Why Sarala? You’re back! So soon too! Have you had your fill of freedom?’
However, Sarala did return after a few months. Soon after the episode of the intruder, she had a bad attack of malaria. The civil surgeon of Mysore was sent for but Sarala proved to be a very difficult patient. She refused to take the allopathic medicines prescribed on the pretext that she was used only to homeopathic treatment and that, too, in very mild doses. Her employers, afraid of taking on her responsibility, informed her parents. Swarnakumari was staying in Satara at the time, where Satyendra was posted as district and sessions judge. Ignoring Sarala’s protests, she came to Mysore, lectured and bullied her daughter back to health and insisted on taking her back, first to Satara, then, three months later, to Kolkata.
Sarala had, indeed, had her fill of personal freedom. But now her soul was fired with longing for a larger, more comprehensive freedom. That of her country. What had been a mere desire became a cause. She had travelled by train several times in her life but it was only now, on this journey back from Mysore, that she noticed some things she hadn’t done before. She realized that of all the people of India, Bengalis had the poorest health and the weakest spirit. Unlike the strong virile bodies and hard facial contours of the Marathas and Rajputs she saw at the various stations, Bengalis were short of stature and emaciated of limb. Their bodies were whittled down by repeated attacks of malaria and dysentery and their bellies swollen with enlarged spleens. The contrast became evident from the moment the train entered the Bengal Presidency. Even the voices of the coolies were different. Weak, timid and quavering. Sarala realized that the hot, humid climate of Bengal and its swampy forests, seething with germs and insects, were largely responsible. But wasn’t the passivity and fatalism, bred into the race from birth, responsible too? Was there no way of changing it? Couldn’t Bengalis be taught the art of bodybuilding and encouraged to become fierce and warlike? To overcome their awe and fear of the ruling class? The more she thought about it, the more possible it seemed and gradually the idea became an obsession with her.
The first thing she did on her return was to take up the editorship of Bharati once again. Using it as a medium, she called upon her fellow Bengalis to strengthen themselves in body and spirit and pledge themselves to the cause of the country even unto death. In an article, ‘The foreign sock versus the native knock’, Sarala exhorted the public to report instances in which they had seen their countrymen protesting against injustice and humiliation. British soldiers and civilians alike, Sarala wrote, insult and knock us about in trains and steamers, on the streets and in public places. And they molest our women in the presence of fathers, brothers and husbands. Our men swallow the insults and go home, fuming, to take it out on their wives. At most they lodge a complaint in the kotwali. Can they not protest there and then?
Sarala’s pleas did not go unheeded. Reports started coming in of stray incidents in which natives had shot back. These were published with great aplomb in Bharati. There was a story of a young man in Kolkata who had tied an abusive, drunken gora by the wrists and taken him to the police station. In Barisaal, a peasant had avenged himself on an Englishman, for pushing his wife into a river, with a severe beating and had even made him serve a sentence. And a college student of Jessore had snatched the raised whip from the hand of a white man and broken it into pieces. Sarala’s heart lifted. Bengalis weren’t all weak and cowardly. There was hope for them yet.
Sarala realized that the need of the hour was to build up a youth force which would have the courage, strength and stamina to fight back when assaulted. She decided to set up a network of gymnasiums in which boys who enrolled would be schooled in the art of attack and defence. The first of these training camps was set up in the back garden of her own house, and scores of young men flocked there every evening, some for the lessons given by the gymnasium master Murtaza, but quite a few, as she discovered to her dismay, to hover around her. But Sarala had handled ardent young men from the time she had entered her teens. The thing to do, she told herself, was to instil in these boys a sense of responsibility and commitment to their motherland. Once they were fired with patriotic zeal, their other baser emotions would die a natural death.
Towards this end, she formulated a few simple rules. Each boy who came would be made to stand before a large map of India, head bowed in reverence, for a few minutes, before proceeding to the gymnasium. And she would, personally, tie a red band on each new entrant’s wrist and make him repeat after her: I solemnly pledge that from this day onwards I shall serve my country with everything I have. Heart, mind, soul and body. I shall overcome all the hazards that lie in the path of preserving and cherishing her honour. With this rakhi I seal my oath.
A few months later, she had another idea. How would it be if she identified a regional hero and organized a festival, in Kolkata, highlighting his life and achievements? Balgangadhar Tilak had been immensely successful with his popularization of Ganesh Chaturthi and his launching of Shivaji as an icon for Maratha youth. Bengalis needed an icon too. Who was it to be? After some deliberation she hit upon Maharaja Pratapaditya. She decided to hold the festival on the first day of the new year, it being the anniversary of Pratapaditya’s coronation. ‘Begin by collecting all the material you can find about his life and reign,’ she told her supporters, ‘then get a citation prepared. Remember to give his courage and valour the utmost prominence. We will honour his memory, not with readings, but with demonstrations of physical prowess. Scour the city of Kolkata and find the best sword fencers, lathiyals and wrestlers. I shall present gold medals inscribed with the message Deva durbalghataka to the best of them.’
The festival was a thundering success. Crowds spilled out into the streets to watch the combats. Women peered from rooftops and balconies and children climbed trees and chimneys to get a better view. It was a historic moment for Bengalis, hitherto dismissed as ‘rice-eating cowards’ by the other races of India. Tears of pride surged into thousands of eyes to see their own people wielding weapons and a beautiful young woman, from one of the first families of the land, standing on the dais, like a symbol of Mother India, exhorting and encouraging them.
Newspapers reported the event the next day with enthusiastic support. However, there were a few dissenting voices too, among them Bipin Pal’s. But these were disregarded by the people. Sarala achieved what she had set
out to do. Pratapaditya entered the consciousness of Bengalis and took on the dimensions of a hero just as Shivaji had done in the Deccan. Following this festival, a play was written about him and staged in the Minerva Theatre under the direction of the famous Amarendranath Datta. It became an instant hit and the people of Kolkata flocked to see it.
Sarala could disregard her critics and did so. But when she heard that her uncle Rabindranath had disapproved of what she had done, she felt extremely hurt and misunderstood. One day a gentleman called Dinesh Sen came to see her and said bluntly, ‘Your uncle is very angry with you.’
‘Why?’ Sarala asked, surprised.
‘Anyone who has read Robi Babu’s Bou Thakurani’r Haat knows what he thinks of Pratapaditya. He was an evil, immoral man who killed his own uncle. And you’ve made a hero of him!’
Sarala was dumbstruck. She sat silent for a few minutes then said quietly, ‘Please tell him that I do not approve of murder and that I do not consider Pratapaditya to be a highly moral man. But I do see him as politically great. A man who had the courage to declare the independence of Bengal, to mint coins in his own name, who feared no one – not even the Mughal Emperor! He is Bengal’s Shivaji and I salute his valour. That is all.’
Fired with the success of her Pratapaditya Utsav, Sarala started delving into the history of Bengal and looking for other heroes. One of them was Pratapaditya’s son Udayaditya. No one had heard of him before his resurrection by Sarala. Having lost his kingdom to the Mughals, he was covered with dishonour and passed over by history. Yet Sarala saw him as a hero, for he had had the courage to face the mighty Mughal armies with his pitifully small one and fight, to the death, side by side with his soldiers. Was not that an act of valour? Sarala set about making arrangements for an Udayaditya Utsav. The venue chosen was the Albert Hall on College Street and the eloquent orator Kshirodprasad Vidyavinod was invited to preside and address the assembly. Despite a good deal of search, no portrait of the dead king could be procured, so Sarala decided to set up a sword instead, to which everyone who came would offer floral tribute. This decision sparked off a controversy between her and Naren Sen, the trustee of Albert Hall, and opened her eyes to some bitter home truths about her own people.
Jorasanko Page 35