A groom was found soon enough. Biharilal Chakravarty, the poet whose work Kadambari had admired so much, had a son named Sarat – a brilliant boy worthy of a beautiful intelligent girl like Beli. A student of Presidency College, he had stood first in the English honours examination then gone on to do his MA and obtain a degree in law, collecting a number of prizes and medals on the way. He was based in Muzaffarpur where he had built up a flourishing practice. Highly eligible, he was quite a catch for aspiring fathers. The only snag was that he was sixteen years older than Beli – more than twice her age. But Rabindranath dismissed that fact as of little consequence. It was difficult to find grooms for girls from a Pirali Brahmo background. He was grateful that Sarat’s family had made no objections on those grounds and had even agreed to his initiation into the Brahmo dharma as per the tradition of the Tagore family. Priyanath Sen, a good friend of Sarat’s two older brothers, was deputed by Rabindranath to carry out the negotiations. But the boy’s father, who had loved the poet and predicted a great future for him, was dead these many years and his widow, a formidable woman, was now head of the family. Arrogant and avaricious, she was aware of her son’s value in the marriage market and was determined to get his full worth which, in her estimation, was twenty thousand rupees in cash.
Mrinalini, who was equally keen on getting her daughter settled, was horrified when she heard of the amount demanded by the boy’s mother. ‘Twenty thousand!’ she exclaimed, turning pale. ‘From where will you get it?’
‘I can raise five thousand from my own resources. And Babamoshai usually makes a present of four or five thousand to his granddaughters after the wedding.’
‘That makes ten.’
‘I know. I’ve asked Priyanath to request the boy’s mother to consider my difficulties and take a sympathetic view.’
Mrinalini raised her eyes and looked at her husband. He was nearing forty and there were threads of white in his hair and beard. But he was handsomer than ever. His skin glowed with health and his large eyes shone with spirit and intelligence. He was the greatest poet of the land; revered by all his countrymen. Yet he was humbling himself before a vain, egotistical woman who, in all probability, couldn’t spell her own name. It was unthinkable but it was happening. Why? Because he was the father of a daughter?
‘Why don’t you look elsewhere?’ she suggested gently. ‘There are other boys.’
‘Oh no!’ Rabindranath replied instantly. ‘I’ve set my heart on Sarat. He’s just the husband I want for my Belu Ma. Don’t worry about the dowry. I’ll manage it somehow.’
But how would he manage it? The boy’s mother was playing a cat-and-mouse game with the negotiator. She had been told that the poet could pay up to ten thousand. That too partly up front and partly in instalments. But she neither accepted nor rejected the offer. She met Priyanath, periodically, raised his hopes, then dashed them without a qualm before raising them again. Priyanath was disgusted and wanted to give up but Rabindranath begged him to continue meeting the lady and try to break down her resistance.
‘Can’t you ask your father to help?’ Priyanath suggested one day.
‘No. Famine has broken out in Kaligram and some of the other estates and rents are in shortfall. Babamoshai is harassed already. I can’t add to his troubles.’ Then, seeing the expression on his friend’s face, Rabindranath added, ‘Just keep up the negotiations and see that the boy does not slip from our hands. I can’t speak to Babamoshai just yet. But I’ll do so when the situation improves. In the meantime status quo is best.’
Despite his brave words, the fear of losing Sarat continued to haunt Rabindranath and he dared not delay. Now, on Priyanath’s advice, he decided to try and settle the matter in person. Meeting Sarat’s two older brothers, Avinash and Hrishikesh, he outlined his difficulties in detail and entreated them to consider his offer sympathetically. Less ambitious than their mother and awed, perhaps, by the sight of the greatest poet of the land humbling himself before them, they agreed. But they added a rider. The ten thousand would be paid at one go and that, too, three days before the marriage was solemnized – on the day of Sarat’s initiation into the Brahmo dharma.
Rabindranath’s face grew dark with humiliation. His father, Maharshi Debendranath Tagore, was still alive and would be conducting his granddaughter’s nuptials. This insistence on the dowry being paid in advance was an insult to his integrity. Rabindranath wanted to spurn the match, to walk out of the room and have nothing more to do with these educated savages. But filial love was stronger than pride. He sat, head bowed, for some time. ‘So be it,’ he said at last. ‘The dowry will be paid on the day of Sarat’s initiation. Now let us set a date.’
But the difficulty of getting the amount together, prior to the wedding, remained. If a word of the conversation his youngest son had had with Sarat’s brothers reached the Maharshi’s ears, there would be serious trouble. He would never submit to such insolence. Priyanath advised his friend not to disclose the truth to his father. He offered to borrow the sum and give it to him on the understanding that Rabindranath would pay him back after the wedding. But the poet hesitated. Mrinalini was against it. This was his first daughter’s wedding, she told him, the first important event in his family and he shouldn’t conduct it in an atmosphere of falsehood. He had always been scrupulously honest with his father and shouldn’t deceive him now, no matter what it cost him. Rabindranath agreed with her.
Approaching his father, he poured out the whole story. The Maharshi, as he had anticipated, was outraged at the lack of trust such a demand indicated and declined outright. The money would be paid, he told his son, but only as a gift to the newly-weds after the ceremony – not as dowry to the groom’s mother and brothers before it. Rabindranath was in a quandary. He pondered over the matter for a few days, then sat and wrote a letter to his future son-in-law. That day, when I met your brothers in Priyanath Sen’s house, he wrote, Avinash suggested that the dowry be paid on the day of your initiation. I agreed upon an impulse, without giving the matter serious thought. But, on imparting this news to my father, he expressed the deepest astonishment. ‘Newly-weds are blessed with gifts of money after the ceremony,’ he said. ‘Why do the boy’s family want it in advance? Do they doubt my integrity?’ I had no answer. And, for the first time, the ignominy and irreverence with which my father is being held, dawned on me.
But if the poet expected his letter to stir the conscience of his future son-in-law, he was sadly disappointed. Sarat wrote back, politely but firmly, that he had no intention of going against his mother and brothers. They were his guardians and he would abide by their decision. A shocked Rabindranath tried to retrieve his lost dignity by replying that he admired Sarat for the position he had taken. I am pleased with the contents of your letter, he wrote, and consider them worthy of you. It was never my purpose that you oppose your elders and marry my daughter against their wishes. Your respect for them has enhanced your image in my eyes. Privately, though, he confessed to Priyanath that writing to Sarat was his second blunder, the first being his reckless commitment that the dowry would be paid in advance. But despite this admission he committed another.
On Sarat’s family suggesting it, he agreed to send his daughter to their house for a bride viewing. At this point, Mrinalini decided to take on a proactive role. Sending for Priyanath Sen, she told him that his friend, great poet though he was, had little knowledge of social conventions and less experience of dealing with them. Sending a girl to a prospective groom’s house for a bride viewing was unthinkable and the family wouldn’t allow it. Henceforth, he was to be in direct communication with her in all matters pertaining to the proposed union.
How Mrinalini and Priyanath Sen managed it no one knew, but the impasse was resolved and the wedding took place but not without leaving a bitter aftertaste. There have been many marriages in our family, Rabindranath wrote regretfully to Priyanath, but in not a single one was such a hard bargain driven. Beli’s mother and I have suffered a wound which is likely t
o leave a mark for all time to come. She’s the bride’s mother but her daughter’s wedding doesn’t seem to enthuse her much. However, we will try to forget the past and pray that everything turns out for the best.
The anxiety and distress that Beli’s marriage had generated was, however, soon forgotten and, within a few weeks of the event, the poet set himself to the task of looking for another son-in-law, a husband for his second daughter. Renuka or Rani, as she was affectionately called, was only ten and somewhat delicate in health. She was the child on whose brow her mother’s tears had fallen a few hours after her birth. Perhaps the ill luck that Mrinalini had tried to wish away dogged her, for her nature was totally out of sync with those of her siblings; indeed with the rest of the world. Plain, sickly, withdrawn and excessively moody she was as different from her pretty, pleasant, affectionate older sister as night is from day. Her reactions, at certain times to certain events, became family legends and were retold and laughed about for years afterwards. Once, when she was only six or seven, she had cut a sari, given to her by her cousin Neetu, into ribbons because it was too pretty and too expensive. She hated beautiful clothes, hated doing up her hair and wearing jewels, and getting her to look decently dressed on special occasions was an uphill task for her mother. Her complete apathy, indeed active hatred for the things of the world and her strange, rebellious nature worried everyone especially her father. His desire to find a husband for her stemmed from a hope that marriage would soften her, smoothen her rough edges and make her more like other girls of her age. He was convinced, he told Mrinalini, that what she needed was to get away from Jorasanko and the family. Only then would she acquire a fresh perspective on life and be happier and more companionable.
With this end in view, Rabindranath started looking around for a suitable groom and found one, almost immediately, in Satyendranath Bhattacharya, a doctor with an LMF degree. And when he heard that the young man cherished a dream of going to America to study homeopathy, he made up his mind. This was just the son-in-law he was looking for. Homeopathy was a great system of medicine and apart from Mahendralal Sarkar no other doctor had taken an interest in it. What a good thing it would be if a son-in-law of his were to get an American degree and be among the first practitioners of homeopathy in Kolkata.
Coming into his apartments that night, Rabindranath found Mrinalini lying on her side, her body resting at an awkward angle on the bed. She was breathing hard and her left hand was pressed against her stomach. But he was so full of his news that he didn’t notice. ‘Chhuti!’ he called out from the door, ‘I’ve found a groom for Rani. Everything is fixed. The wedding is to take place in three days.’
Mrinalini sat up with difficulty. ‘Three days!’ she echoed. ‘What are you saying?’
Rabindranath noticed his wife’s pallor and put it down to shock at his news. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘With this boy we’ll have none of the problems we had with Sarat. His family wants nothing. All I’ll have to do is to send him to America where he wishes to study homeopathy.’ Here Rabindranath was guilty of a slight prevarication. Satyen’s mother was a widow, wholly dependent on him, and the poet had promised to make her a monthly allowance of fifty rupees during the entire period of her son’s absence.
‘You’ve promised to send him to America?’ Mrinalini’s brows came together. ‘You mean you’ll buy him a ticket? What about his fees, boarding and lodging? Does he have the means to support himself there?’
‘Of course not. I’ll have to support him. But it is only for two years,’ he hastened to add.
‘There’s your debt to the Marwari,’ Mrinalini muttered, ‘and the expenses of the school.’
‘We’ll spend very little on the wedding. And we’ll have to stint ourselves a bit for some time. I’ve made an estimate. Satyen will need a hundred and fifty pounds for the tickets. Seventy-five each way. Eight or nine pounds a month should be sufficient for his college fees, board, and lodging. Perhaps a little extra now and then for books, clothes and a bit of sightseeing. About four hundred pounds in all. I can manage it…’ He glanced at Mrinalini’s anxious face and added eagerly, ‘Wait till you see him, Chhuti. He’s just the right type for our daughter. Good looking, well behaved and extremely easy to get along with. He’ll be patient and gentle with Rani. A girl of her temperament will find it hard to submit to a strong, controlling husband. Like Sarat for example. She’s no Beli.’
‘But she’s only ten. And she’s so frail!’ Mrinalini groaned and pressed her hand harder on her stomach. Rabindranath’s face reddened. He understood the implication and said quietly, ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered that. Satyen will leave immediately after the wedding. He has agreed to let us keep our daughter with us till he returns. She’ll have become a woman by then. The phool sajya can take place afterwards…’
‘She has always been sickly,’ Mrinalini murmured. ‘Meera is almost her size though three years younger.’
‘I know. I know. Give her nourishing food to eat. And I’ll buy her a tonic. But let’s get the wedding over first. There’s no time to lose.’
Rani’s wedding was as austere as Beli’s had been ornate and ostentatious. The grounds had dazzled with lights and fireworks then, and the house packed with guests. The feasting and music had gone on for a week and thousands of rupees been spent on clothes and jewels. Hundreds of dhutis and saris were bought to be given away as presents to relatives and servants and the beautiful bride had been showered with gifts. Her father had given her a library as dowry – several cupboards full of books written by well-known authors. In comparison, Rani’s wedding went almost unnoticed. Most of the invitations did not reach in time, so there were hardly any guests. The only people present, apart from a few special friends of the poet, were the members of the family and they were stiff-lipped and censorious. This was no way to conduct the marriage of a daughter of the illustrious Tagores of Jorasanko! The father was a poet and took little interest in family traditions. But what about the mother? Mrinalini knew how things were done. Hadn’t she got another daughter married only a few months ago? How could she put up such a poor show this time?
The wedding took everyone by surprise, most of all, the bride herself. She didn’t know how to react. This was not a sari or a piece of jewellery that her mother was trying to foist on her. It was a husband and it was her father who was responsible. Rani loved her father with a fierce passionate love and held him in awe at the same time. There was no way in which she could throw a tantrum, as she could and did with her mother, and make him change his mind. She crept about the house for the next two days, keeping to the shadows, avoiding everyone. Then, at early dawn of the dreaded day, when her aunts and cousins came to wake her up for the curd ceremony, she came to know from snatches of their conversation that she would not be going away with her husband. It was he who would go away, leaving her with her parents for two whole years. She almost collapsed with relief. Rising obediently she went through the rituals, one by one, but stiff and wooden like a puppet pulled by a string. She had eyes for no one and even during the shubho drishti, the auspicious exchange of glances, she didn’t look up and see her husband’s face. It was neither necessary nor important. Everything that was happening around her was ephemeral, unreal. It would last only a little while…
II
After Rani’s wedding, Rabindranath gave up his apartment in Jorasanko and moved with his family to Shantiniketan more or less on a permanent basis. The shift from the palatial mansion of Jorasanko, in the heart of the city, to the small thatched cottage in the wilds of Birbhum was unsettling for them all, but Mrinalini’s stoicism and her ability to make the best of a situation enabled her to render the passage as smooth as possible not only for herself but for her husband and children. The new house had only three rooms but her living arrangements ensured that everyone was reasonably comfortable. The largest and best one was given to Rabindranath. The second was shared by the girls and Mrinalini’s aunt Rajlakshmi, a li
vely widow who had accompanied them. The smallest and darkest she retained for herself and her younger son Samindra. Rathi was one of the five boys with whom his father had started the brahmacharyashram and he slept with his peers in another cottage.
The biggest disadvantage of Rabindranath’s new house was that it had no kitchen. Mrinalini set up a couple of coal buckets in one corner of the veranda and did her cooking there, not only for her own family but for the students as well. The school had no income, for the boys were charged no fees. But boarding had to be provided and salaries paid to the tutors. As the numbers of students and tutors increased, finances became tighter and the pressure on Mrinalini greater. She found it very difficult to feed so many mouths on the shoestring budget her husband had allotted and the primitive conditions in which she lived. And she wasn’t feeling well at all. She had a constant pain in the left side of her stomach and spasms of breathlessness but she dared not mention this to anyone. Her husband was under great pressure and quite frantic with worry. There were so many expenses and so little money. The jewels had all been sold to set up the school and run it for the first few years and now he had nothing to fall back upon except his own income and the two hundred rupees his father had sanctioned from the estate each month. No, Mrinalini couldn’t tell him about her ill health or ask for more money. She would manage as best as she could.
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