Jorasanko

by Aruna Chakravarti

  A few hours before the meeting was to be held, a young man from Sarala’s group came rushing to her with some distressing news. Naren Sen had declined to give the hall to them at the last moment. He had heard that they were planning to worship a sword and since natives were not allowed to carry arms, he was afraid it might be looked upon as a treasonable offence and land him in trouble with the authorities. He had written a letter to her explaining the situation which was on its way. Sarala’s face flamed with outrage. ‘The old coward,’ she cried out angrily. ‘If he thinks I’ll cancel the meeting because of his fears, he’s sadly mistaken. Look for another venue as close to Albert Hall as possible. We’ll hold it exactly the way we planned. Don’t worry about the expense. Take whatever you need from me.’ Then, entering her father’s study, she dashed off an angry letter to Naren Sen. You are a good Hindu, she wrote. You know very well that Hindus may worship before three symbols of the Divine – image, pot and blade. In the absence of a portrait of the dead king we chose to use a falchion. Our worship is not of the man but of his valour of which the blade is a symbol. And our sword is no ordinary one. It is an heirloom, dating from medieval times, borrowed for the occasion from a zamindar family of north India. If you try to stop our endeavour, you will have a whole nation against you. All the newspapers will carry the report that you, an acknowledged leader of Bengal, lost your courage and tried to prevent the young men of your country from performing a symbolic worship of strength.

  The letter put Naren Sen in a fix. He had heard of Sarala Ghoshal’s popularity and power over the younger generation. He was afraid that her followers might get enraged and try to harm him in some way. On the other hand, worship of arms was a treasonable act. What was he to do? After much dithering, he decided to allow Sarala to hold her meeting at the Albert Hall. He sent the key to her with a note in which he stated clearly that she could use the premises but would be solely responsible for any trouble that might follow. He would not even be present. Thus the elderly gentleman washed his hands off the affair, putting the entire onus on Sarala’s young shoulders.

  Meanwhile, another venue had been identified. This was Alfred Theatre on Harrison Road, located a stone’s throw from Albert Hall. To be on the safe side, the boys announced their intention of worshipping a sword before renting the auditorium. But the Marwari gentleman who owned it laughed heartily and said, ‘You’ve rented the hall for the evening. Now it is yours to do what you like with. You may sing, dance or worship as you choose. So long as I get my money I shall have no complaints.’ Sarala had two options to choose from now, but she decided in favour of Alfred Theatre. A group of volunteers was stationed outside Albert Hall to direct people to the new venue. Sarala had a reason for her decision. She wanted to expose Naren Sen and thus fan the fire of her countrymen’s hatred of cowards and renegades.

  The meeting was a great success. The hall was packed and many spectators stood at the back and crowded into the aisle and around the doors. Despite the crush of people, there was pin-drop silence. But those who had come to see the young woman of exemplary courage were disappointed. Sarala did not attend the meeting. The inaugural address she had written was read out by one of the organizers and everything was conducted exactly as she had planned.

  Sarala had won her battle yet she felt dejected. The events of the last few hours had left her depressed and morose. But it went beyond that. It wasn’t only Naren Sen’s attitude that had brought to light the awe and fear her countrymen still felt for the white man. She had been seeing it everywhere. There was much else that worried her. She had worked so hard to rouse the conscience of her people. But had she succeeded? Wouldn’t the young men who were hovering around her now sing a very different tune the moment her leadership was removed? Who would take her place if, God forbid, she had to let go? No one supported her. Not even her parents. Her mother locked herself in her study, writing book after book, not caring to ask what Sarala was doing and why. Her father, busy with his own superior brand of national politics, looked upon her efforts with a careless indulgence as one would the antics of a bright, wilful child. Worst of all, her favourite uncle, her Roi ma, hadn’t approved of what she had done. And he hadn’t even told her himself. She had had to receive his rebuke from a stranger.

  Tears stung Sarala’s eyes. She came and stood before the map of India she had put up on one wall of the drawing room. Folding her hands she closed her eyes. And, slowly, an uncanny feeling came over her. It seemed to her that her motherland was holding out her arms and bidding her come to her breast. The tears were falling fast now and sweeping down Sarala’s cheeks. But they were tears of pride. India! Her country! Ringed by three mighty seas and the highest mountain ranges in the world. Nurtured by vast rivers! Cradle of one of the most ancient civilizations of the world! A land where so many races and religions had met and mingled. Who could destroy her? A wave of patriotic feeling swept over Sarala. The words of a song came to her mind. She had composed it for the Congress session held last year in Beadon Street. Even Roi ma had approved of it. Ateet gaurav bahini mama bani/Gao aji Hindustan…

  Let our words bear on its wings our ancient glory

  Let us sing to Hindustan!

  May every voice in every tongue

  Pay obeisance to Hindustan

  Sarala’s lips parted and she sang softly: Har har har – jai Hindustan / Sat sree akaal – Hindustan / Allah hu akhbar – Hindustan / Namah Hindustan

  II

  Jnanadanandini had to move house several times that year – from 49 Park Street to 1 Rainee Park and from there to 19 Store Road before her husband would be satisfied. After a long, glorious stint as district and sessions judge of Satara, Satyendranath had retired from government service and returned to Bengal. Having lived in huge mansions surrounded by beautiful gardens all his life, he found the houses of Kolkata small and cramped. There was no question of going back to Jorasanko. Most of the original family, to whom the house really belonged, had moved out. Jnanada hadn’t lived there for two decades now, and Jyotirindranath had given up his apartments ever since Kadambari’s death. Even Debendranath preferred to stay in a rented house, when he was in Kolkata, with Soudamini who wouldn’t leave her father’s side. He visited Jorasanko now and then to keep an eye on things.

  As for Rabindranath and Mrinalini, they were spending more time on the estates than in Kolkata. Jnanada hadn’t gone to the estates herself, but her son Suren was a frequent visitor. She had heard from him that their family boat, Padma, saw a constant stream of house guests; eminent men like Loken Palit, Dwijendralal Roy, Akshay Chowdhury and Jagadish Bose among them. They were friends of Robi’s and his ardent admirers. And Mrinalini, she heard, made everyone so welcome and so comfortable that parting from her was a wrench. Unlike Jnanadanandini, she rarely participated in the men’s discussions. She confined herself to the kitchen and sent out an unending supply of delicious snacks and sweets made with her own hands. Mrinalini had five children, now, who kept her busy all day but her husband loved entertaining his friends and Mrinalini, for all her pressing duties, would not let him down.

  Jnanadanandini was a good hostess too though her style was quite different from Mrinalini’s. Both she and Satyendra believed in lavish and sophisticated entertaining and their parties were the talk of the city. Their home, in Store Road, was a huge mansion surrounded by twenty bighas of land, and the wealthy, cultured elite of Kolkata flocked to it several evenings a month. The finest wines and liquors flowed freely at their receptions. Delicacies from English hotels – devilled eggs, caviar, diced liver and shrimps on crisp wedges of toast, fish baked cunningly in pieces of oiled paper, mushrooms in crumbling patties full of cheese and creamy sauce, rich pastries and fruit tarts with swirls of whipped cream so light they could be blown away with a puff – were passed around on huge trays by white-gloved bearers. But the cynosure of all eyes, particularly those of the younger men, was their beautiful, talented daughter Bibi.

  One day, Rabindranath received a letter from
Jnanadanandini informing him that a good match had been found for Bibi and that she was eager to set the date as soon as possible. The prospective groom was Ashutosh Chowdhury’s brother Jogesh, a barrister with a flourishing practice in Kolkata. Rabindranath was surprised. He was aware that Bibi had many admirers and two of Ashu’s brothers were among them. But he was under the impression that she preferred the younger, Pramatha, who was a handsome, pleasant young man, well read and articulate. Jogesh, more successful in his profession, was somewhat moody and dour. Had Bibi given her consent to the marriage with Jogesh voluntarily? Or had Mejo Bouthan pushed it through, in her usual domineering style, because his prospects were better? He decided to find out. He came to the house in Store Road one evening and was received by Jnanada and Bibi with their usual warmth.

  ‘Why didn’t you bring Chhoto Bou and the children?’ Jnanada asked. ‘I haven’t seen them in a long time.’

  ‘Chhoto Bou has fever,’ Rabindranath replied. ‘She hasn’t been keeping well since Sami was born.’

  ‘What do the doctors say?’

  ‘She has an infection, picked up, perhaps, from the one of the villages on the estate. It comes and goes. The trouble is that she’s very careless of herself. She doesn’t rest enough and doesn’t take her medicines regularly. What can the doctors do?’

  ‘I’ll go and see her one of these days,’ Jnanada said, ‘and give her a good scolding. She must look after herself. If she doesn’t, who will?’

  ‘Do you think she’ll listen to you? She’s quite stubborn.’

  ‘If she doesn’t, I’ll bring her here. I’ll pour the medicines down her throat.’

  Rabindranath smiled at his sister-in-law. At forty-five, Jnanadanandini was as handsome and stately as ever. Her body was firm and well proportioned and her skin, pampered over the years by the finest soaps and oils, was smooth and unlined. She could have passed for thirty except that her hair, still long and abundant, was lightly brushed with silver. She wore an ash-grey sari of heavy crepe, with an embroidered border, held at the shoulder with an emerald brooch, and her black satin jacket, with its collar of Irish lace, clung to her breasts and shapely shoulders like a second skin. Her daughter, petite and pretty as a fairy in pink chiffon and pearls, looked like her younger sister. Rabindranath felt a pang. Compared to Jnanada, Mrinalini looked like a middle-aged matron. Her body was heavy and flabby and her hands calloused with the hard physical work she insisted on doing. She had turned old before her time. A vague sense of guilt nagged him at the thought, though why he couldn’t imagine.

  ‘What are you doing about the children’s education, Robi?’ Jnanada changed the subject. ‘Beli is ten and Rathi eight and you still haven’t sent them to school! Do you want them to grow up ignorant as savages?’

  Rabindranath didn’t answer her for a few minutes. The word savages hurt but she had always been sharp tongued and he had never reacted. He didn’t do so now. He wanted to tell her that he had no faith in the British system of education. His own schooldays had not only been acutely unhappy, he had gained nothing from them. He was determined that his children would not go through the same grind. But he didn’t say so. He knew his sister-in-law wouldn’t understand. ‘They don’t go to school,’ he said instead, ‘but they are getting a good education. I have employed two tutors. An English gentleman, Mr Lawrence, teaches them English and arithmetic, and a Bengali pandit, Sri Shivdhan Vidyarnav, gives them lessons in Sanskrit. His accent is impeccable – as good as any pandit of Kashi. A trained governess called Miss Parsons teaches Beli sewing, nursing and playing the piano. Even Rani and Meera join the lessons. Beli is a voracious reader both in Bangla and English.’

  ‘What about history and geography?’

  ‘I sit with them whenever I find the time and talk to them about our country, its diverse climates, races and cultures – all in story form. And I read out extracts from our ancient texts.’

  ‘Ancient texts!’ Jnanada gave a snort of laughter. ‘But they’re in jaw-breaking Sanskrit. Do your children know that much Sanskrit?’

  ‘I use the simpler versions by Bankimchandra and Michael Madhusudan Dutt. Even then, they don’t understand it all. But they enjoy the readings. The power and beauty of the language enters their ears. And I’m convinced that, at a later date, they will find their way into their minds.’ Turning to his niece, he said, ‘Let’s go for a walk in the grounds, Bibi. I’m told there are some fine old resin trees and a flowering magnolia. Lead me to them.’

  Taking her hand, he yanked her out of her chair and the two went out for a stroll. They talked of this and that, for a while, then Rabindranath came to the point.

  ‘I hear you are marrying Jogesh Chowdhury. Why?’

  ‘What do you mean by why?’

  ‘I mean why are you marrying Jogesh when you prefer Pramatha?’

  Bibi blushed. ‘Who told you that?” she asked softly. Rabindranath thought for a minute. It was Sarala who had told him that Bibi liked Pramatha. That she wrote him twenty-page letters, several times a week, addressing him as Mon Ami. But it wasn’t fair to bring her into this discussion. The matter was extremely delicate. Pramatha had proposed to Sarala first. She had refused and told him to try his luck with Bibi. ‘Never mind who told me,’ he said firmly. ‘I have eyes and ears of my own. Why are you marrying one brother when you prefer another? Answer me.’

  ‘Ma wants me to marry Jogesh Babu. She feels he can give me a better life.’

  ‘Do you believe that too?’

  Bibi raised her eyes to her uncle’s. ‘I don’t know,’ she said in the voice of a lost child. ‘I’m so confused. I like Pramatha Babu’s company and feel more comfortable with him. And we have many tastes in common. But is that love? I don’t know. Ma says practical considerations are essential when choosing a partner. Love comes afterwards. What do you think, Robi ka?’

  ‘My opinion is that you go to your parents immediately and tell them of your feelings for Pramatha.’

  ‘Jah! How can I do that?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Can a modest, well-brought-up girl raise her eyes to her father and tell him that she loves a man?’

  ‘You amaze me, Bibi. You’ve lived in England for many years. You’ve been brought up like an English girl. Yet you’re afraid of admitting your feelings? Have you considered the consequences? You’ll have to spend your whole life with a man you don’t love. What’s worse, you’ll have to live in the same house with the one you do and see him become another woman’s husband.’

  ‘But, Robi ka, you didn’t want to marry Kakima either. Yet you did because your elders told you to.’

  ‘The two cases are quite different. I didn’t want to marry anybody. When I was forced to – well, your kakima was as good as any other girl.’

  ‘You’ve been happy with her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes…’ Rabindranath hesitated just a fraction of a second and added, ‘Yes. I have been happy.’

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Tell your mother you love Pramatha.’

  ‘Baap re! She has set her heart on the match with Jogesh Babu. She’ll… she’ll’

  ‘Then I shall speak to her. Or, better still, ask Solli to speak to her. Solli, unlike you, is a forceful young woman and gets her own way with everyone. Even Mejo Bouthan. Remember Bose’s Circus?’ Rabindranath burst out laughing. So did Bibi though her eyes were full of tears. ‘Cheer up.’ Her uncle patted her head. ‘All will be well.’

  But, luckily for Bibi, no intervention was required. The marriage negotiations broke down on their own. Jnanada, like her father-in-law before her, had several conditions which she spelled out to her son-in-law prior to the wedding. The most important of them was that, in keeping with the Tagore family tradition, Jogesh and his wife would make their home with her. This condition was rejected outright by his sister, the writer Prasannamayi Debi who, widowed at an early age, lived in her parental home and held the position of the head of the family. A woman of great dignity and person
ality, she was immensely respected and her word was law in the Chowdhury household. Everyone, including Jogesh, supported her decision. A test of strength followed between the two grande dames, in which Jnanada was forced to withdraw in abject surrender. Feeling bitterly humiliated, she gave vent to her indignation so often and so freely that poor Bibi, who had not wanted the marriage in the first place, felt responsible for her mother’s distress and shed many tears into her pillow.

  The marriage with Jogesh broke off but Bibi could not summon the nerve to tell her mother that she wished to marry Pramatha. Sarala, exasperated with her cousin’s passivity, decided to take the matter into her own hands and encounter her aunt. She had expected fierce resistance, even outright refusal, but strangely enough, Jnanadanandini’s response was entirely favourable. She had no objection to the match, she said, but her condition remained. She wouldn’t send her daughter to live among strangers. If Pramatha was ready to leave the Chowdhury clan and come and make his home with her, she would welcome him as her son-in-law.

  And now the tug of war began all over again. Neither Prasannamayi nor Jnanada would budge from their positions. But this time there was a difference. Pramatha was genuinely in love with Bibi and told her that he would marry her at all costs, even if it meant breaking with his family. Emboldened by Pramatha’s courage, Bibi announced her decision to remain a spinster all her life if she couldn’t marry the man she loved.