Rabindranath was, indeed, in a fix. The tutors hadn’t been paid for two months and bills were coming in for the new cottage he was building for the boys. The numbers having swelled to twenty it was becoming impossible to accommodate them all in the old one. His wife was straining herself, beyond human endurance, trying to feed them all on the meagre funds allotted to her. She was growing her own vegetables and greens and doing all the work of the kitchen. She needed another hand desperately. But where was the money? He had been promised help from several quarters but nothing had come so far. Rani’s husband, Satyendranath, was an additional worry. Rabindranath had spent seventy-five pounds on the ticket to America but the boy hadn’t even reached there. He was still in London, where he had broken journey to see the sights.
One morning, Rabindranath came bursting into Mrinalini’s makeshift kitchen, a sheaf of papers in his hand. His manner was flurried and his face crimson.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mrinalini looked up from her cooking, her eyes anxious. ‘Is that a letter from Muzaffurpur? Is my Beli… is she… or is it?’
Her husband shook his head. ‘These are bills for the framing and tiling of the new house. The contractor has written a letter threatening to withdraw his workmen if payment is not made within three days. But the trouble is… I… I don’t have the money.’
Mrinalini turned and, picking up her tongs, took the huge wok full of steaming vegetables off the fire. Rabindranath saw that her face had turned pale as she did so. But she managed it. Setting her wok on the ground, she began pulling off her heavy shark-headed bangles off her wrists. But her hands had hardened over the years, and the gold circlets wouldn’t pass over her knuckles. ‘I’ll need to put some soap,’ she muttered and rose to her feet. ‘It’s quite a struggle getting them off.’
‘Those are my mother’s balas,’ Rabindranath cried out passionately. ‘I’ve seen them on her wrists as long as I can remember.’
‘Yes.’ Mrinalini smiled at her husband. ‘She left them for me. I, too, have worn them ever since I came to Jorasanko.’
‘Why do you take them off then?’
‘Because I have nothing else,’ Mrinalini answered simply. ‘Only this chain, which I can’t give you. A mother of sons mustn’t go around with her neck bare.’
Rabindranath watched her enter her room and return, a few minutes later, holding out the bangles. Putting them in her husband’s hands, she went back to her cooking.
Rabindranath returned to his study and sent for one of the tutors, a man he trusted. He gave him the bangles with instructions to sell them to the jeweller in Bolpur and bring back the money. Then, picking up his pen, he went back to his writing. He had just started on a new novel with an unusual theme. The central character was an orphan, a young widow who had found shelter in the wealthy household of a distant relative and become very friendly with the daughter-in-law of the house. The author wasn’t sure, at this stage, of how the story would unfold but he saw the two girls quite clearly. The widow, Binodini, was beautiful and voluptuous and her head was filled with dreams of love and romance. She was a charismatic character, somewhat mysterious – a stark contrast to the sweet, gentle, innocent Asha, her special friend and soi. Chokher Bali, the name they had chosen to call each other by, indicated that the two women would, ultimately, become thorns in each other’s side. But how? Rabindranath put down his pen and thought for a while. Should he make his novel a simple tale of seduction and betrayal? Or should he attempt something more complex? Like a love triangle for instance? Then he shook his head. No premeditation, he told himself sternly, the story must evolve in its own way and at its own pace.
The author lost himself, for the next two hours, in the rooms and galleries of the women’s wing in which Asha and Binodini ran about, chatted, ate paan and played cards. The sound of a gong calling the children for lunch brought him back to reality. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a watch. It was a solid gold watch, on a heavy chain, gifted to him on his wedding day by one of his Pathuriaghata relatives. It had a small spring at the side which, when pressed, made the lid snap open and revealed the dial. But today he didn’t press the spring. He sat with it in his hand for a long time, his heart heavy with regret. Why didn’t he think of selling his watch to pay the contractor’s bill? Why did he go to Mrinalini and take her last ornament from her? An ornament valued by them both because it had belonged to his mother. How quietly she had given it! How casually! As though giving away the last of her possessions was nothing! ‘Your wrists are bare,’ he had said to her, his voice tinged with guilt. ‘No,’ she had replied surprised, ‘I’m wearing conch bangles.’
Six months later, Rabindranath sat in a room in Lal Bari writing the closing chapters of Chokher Bali. The novel had been appearing in serial form for several months now, and had aroused a great deal of interest and speculation among readers. Scores of letters came to him every week, asking questions and giving suggestions. What was Robi Babu planning to do with Binodini? Should a depraved creature like her, one who had seduced not one but two good men and broken the gentle Asha’s heart, be allowed to live? Kill her off and purge the world of her noxious presence. Some others had milder, more humane, suggestions. Was it possible to marry her off to Behari? Widow remarriage was legal now. Mahendra must go back to his wife of course or there would be no justice in the world. But Binodini, too, deserved some sympathy… poor thing! Or she could be allowed to die – a quiet, dignified death. Then she would be viewed as a tragic character and not a villainess. What did the author think?
The author, as a matter of fact, didn’t like any of these suggestions. But he didn’t know what he would do either. There was no question of killing off Binodini, tragically or otherwise. She was a widow, denied love and physical fulfilment by a harsh, insensitive social order. Yet she craved them. Was that a crime? Wasn’t a widow made of flesh and blood like everyone else? On the other hand, he couldn’t allow her to triumph over Asha. That wouldn’t be fair. And it would play havoc with family conventions and alienate the majority of his readers. Was there no way in which Binodini’s sexual aspirations could be recognized and sympathized with and denied at the same time?
Rabindranath was sunk in thought, trying to resolve this dilemma when a servant brought him a letter with a foreign postmark. His lips tightened. It was from his son-in-law. Satyen had changed his mind about going to America and studying homeopathy before the ship reached halfway to its destination. But, even then, the poet hadn’t given up hope. He had written several letters entreating his son-in-law to study something; to specialize in some area – ENT or ophthalmology – whatever suited his temperament. But the boy had done nothing. He had been living in England for the past one year, enrolling in different courses, but sticking to none. He lived off the allowance his wife’s father made him and shamelessly asked for sundry extra sums whenever he needed them. This letter, doubtless, contained another of those appeals. Rabindranath sighed and slit open the envelope.
Going through the contents, his face darkened with fury. Satyen was, indeed, writing to him for money. A great deal of money. He hated England, he wrote, and was desperately unhappy. The climate was too cold and the people unfriendly. He wanted to return. His father-in-law was to send him a hundred pounds – seventy-five for the ticket and the rest to take care of some small debts he had incurred and other miscellaneous expenses. He would book a passage to Kolkata as soon as he received the draft. ‘Scoundrel!’ Rabindranath muttered between clenched teeth. ‘Does he think I have a wishing tree which will rain money whenever I shake the boughs?’ He had a good mind to throw away the letter and pretend it never came. He even toyed with the idea of discontinuing the allowance he made every month. If his insufferable son-in-law was stuck in England without an assured source of expenditure, he would learn the value of money. And he would be forced to bestir himself and earn his own living.
At this point in his thoughts, his wife’s face came before him. A wan, sallow face, eyes wide with pain as
she struggled to lift the heavy wok from the fire. But the lips smiled. Don’t be disheartened, her voice floated in his ears. Satyen is a good boy. Only somewhat weak and lacking in consistency. You mustn’t think of abandoning him. Don’t forget he is our daughter’s husband. Yes. Satyen was Rani’s husband and had a claim on him. He wondered why the Tagores felt responsible for their sons-in-law. No other family did. Look at Mejo dada. He had set up Bibi and Pramatha in a house close to his own and kept them in a style far beyond Pramatha’s income. For Pramatha, though a nice boy, was quite unsuccessful in his profession. Could it be a perception handed down by their Pirali ancestors? Diffused by time, perhaps, but still lurking somewhere in the subconscious?
Mejo dada’s pampering of his son-in-law was linked with his daughter’s happiness. But was that the case with Rani? Wouldn’t she be far happier if she never saw her husband again? If she could go on living as an unwed daughter of the house? Especially now… Mrinalini had written, last month, that Rani was suffering from a low-grade fever and bouts of coughing and had become very thin and pale. Yet Rabindranath agreed with his wife. He couldn’t abandon Satyen. Tapping his teeth with a pencil, he thought about ways and means of raising the hundred pounds.
While Rabindranath was struggling with his novel and trying to meet the demands of his son-in-law, Mrinalini had problems of her own. The munsef of Bolpur had invited her and the children on the occasion of his daughter’s shadh and she had nothing she could take with her as a gift. Shadh, its literal meaning being desire, was an event that took place on an auspicious day during the ninth month of a woman’s pregnancy. A great fuss was made over the expectant mother and congratulations poured over her for having carried the child successfully for a full term. She was given everything her heart desired – saris, jewels, her favourite foods to eat. Married women were invited to participate in the celebrations and they came bearing gifts and blessings. There was, however, something morbid about a shadh, which everyone tried to ignore. This could, very easily, be the last time the pregnant girl was enjoying herself. For who knew if she would come through her ordeal alive? So many women died at childbirth…
Mrinalini sat before her open trunk, its contents scattered around her, wondering what to do. All her life she had seen the women of Jorasanko setting out for a shadh celebration with three or four servants carrying expensive saris, jewels – whose weight and cost were in approximation to the relationship with the family – trays of sweets and snacks, a large fish, paan, oil and spices. The sweets and snacks she could make herself but what would she do about the sari? She had only twenty-seven rupees with which she would have to run the kitchen till her husband came back from Kolkata. If she took four, or even three, out of it, she could send someone to Bolpur to buy a sari. But she daren’t take the risk. What if he didn’t return before the end of the month? She could send word, of course, that she was unwell and couldn’t attend the celebrations. And it wouldn’t be a lie either. She was feeling queasy and easily exhausted for the last few weeks as though… almost as though she was pregnant again. Sami was five and a half. She had thought her childbearing days were over but, perhaps, she was wrong. Anyhow, even if she pleaded indisposition and didn’t go, she would still have to send some presents. She was a daughter-in-law of the Tagores of Jorasanko and she had to keep up the prestige of the family.
A shadow fell into the room and Mrinalini looked up. Rani stood at the door. ‘What is it, Ma?’ she asked, peering sharply into her mother’s flushed face and red-rimmed eyes. ‘Why are you sitting here like this? And why are your things scattered on the floor?’
‘It’s nothing.’ Mrinalini started shoving her saris and jackets back into the trunk. ‘You go back to bed. I’ll bring you your barley water in a few minutes.’
‘Something is wrong and I think I know what it is. You don’t have a present for Munsef Kaka’s daughter.’ Mrinalini stared at her. How Rani has changed in the last year, she thought. She was such a wayward, headstrong girl. Wrapped up in herself, without a thought for others. And look at her now! So quiet and controlled. So sensitive to all that is happening around her. Now that Mrinalini thought of it, she realized that Rani had extraordinary powers of perception. She always knew, without being told, whenever a letter arrived from Satyen asking for money. She would creep about the house like a shadow, for days afterwards, not daring to meet her father’s eyes. Mrinalini had caught her a couple of times sobbing bitterly, her face pressed into her pillow. She loved her father more than anyone in the world and hated herself for being a source of trouble to him.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Rani murmured. ‘You have nothing to take with you. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Foolish girl!’ Mrinalini laughed and wiped her eyes. ‘What can you do?’
‘Ma,’ Rani spoke in the voice of an indulgent mother mildly rebuking a child, ‘I have so many saris from the wedding that I’ve never worn. Don’t you know that? Take one and…’
‘No, no.’ Mrinalini shut the trunk with a snap. ‘That won’t be necessary. Let me see… I’ll… I’ll manage to do something.’
Rani went out of the room and returned in a few minutes. She had a turmeric-yellow sari, with a flashy red and gold border, in her hand. On top of it lay a silver sindoor box shaped like a fish. ‘I’ll never use them,’ she said, quietly laying the articles on the bed.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Mrinalini scolded. ‘They were given to you by your mother-in-law. You mustn’t give them away.’
‘I hate this sari. The colour makes me look like a jaundiced cat. As for the sindoor box…’ She made a face. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘I have a strange feeling. I feel… that I won’t need to wear a new sari ever again.’
Mrinalini’s heart stopped at these words. She looked at the girl’s wasted face, the grey shadows under her eyes and around her mouth, and said in a voice that rasped with fear, ‘Don’t talk nonsense. Everyone gets a bit of fever now and then. Your father has promised to take you to the mountains, for a change of air, as soon as he finishes writing his novel. It will do you a world of good…’ Her voice died away at the look on her daughter’s face. There was a tiny smile on the girl’s lips and a faint challenge in her eyes…
The shadh over, Mrinalini stepped out of the veranda and descended the few steps that led to the drive where her carriage stood waiting. It was raining heavily and visibility was poor. ‘Careful! Careful!’ the munsef’s wife warned as her guest set foot on what she thought was level ground but what was actually the last step. The warning came too late. Mrinalini’s foot shot over the edge of the step and she was flung headlong into a swirling sea of red mud and slush. A searing pain rippled across her belly as her heavy body fell with a thud. Something burst within her in a shower of white-hot sparks. She tried to sit up and now the blood came gushing out of her – thick, warm and slimy. She heard voices, high-pitched and fearful, and saw hands reaching out to her. And then… she fainted.
The journey back to Shantiniketan was a nightmare. It was so dark, day seemed to have turned into night. The carriage inched its way through the pelting rain, the coachman straining his eyes to see what lay ahead. The wheels got stuck every now and then in holes and ruts filled with water, and had to be heaved up with the help of passers-by. It took hours, and all the while the injured woman lay writhing in agony. For once, the extraordinary willpower that had sustained her through the many adversities of her life abandoned her. She wept like a child and reaching home, at last, lay down on the bed and never got up again.
Rabindranath received the news of his wife’s fall, a few days afterwards, in a letter from his fourteen-year-old son who, in his absence, had assumed the role of the man of the house. The doctor had come from Bolpur, Rathi wrote, and left medicines. But they weren’t helping. Ma was in great pain and had become bedridden. What was worse she was eating nothing. He ended with a fervent plea to his father to come to Shantiniketan and take charge.
Rabindranath’s first reaction was a flick
er of annoyance. Why did Mrinalini have to go to the munsef’s house in such inclement weather? And that, too, when she was unwell? What was he to do now? He had so many commitments in Kolkata. He couldn’t be in two places at the same time. It was obvious that the medical attention she was receiving in Shantiniketan was inadequate. She needed to be brought to Kolkata and treated by the doctors here. But who would go to fetch her? There was no question of his going. The next two weeks were crucial for him. He was up to his neck getting Chokher Bali ready for publication and dealing with the fan mail it had generated. Besides, a complete anthology of his poetry was coming out, volume by volume, and he was working till late into the night arranging the order, writing the introductions and checking proofs. How he missed Balendra! If Bolu were alive he would have rushed to his kakima’s side. They had been so fond of one another. Mrinalini, he was convinced, had brought on her present condition by her prolonged grieving over Bolu’s death.
A little later, however, his mood changed. The thought of his patient, enduring wife being racked by pains so severe that she was unable to leave her bed disturbed him profoundly. Sending for the man who had brought his son’s letter, he handed him a packet of medicines and a note for Rathi explaining why he was unable to come just now. He also gave suggestions and advice about how the patient was to be handled and precise instructions as to how the medicines had to be administered.
But Rabindranath’s medicines had little effect on Mrinalini. Her body burned with fever and she lay, day after day, in a kind of stupor, waking up with a start every time a fresh wave of pain assailed her. She bore it without uttering a sound. She stopped speaking except to answer a question and, if at all she opened her mouth voluntarily, it was only to ask, ‘Do you think the letter has reached your father, Rathi?’
Jorasanko Page 39