‘Yes, I do!’ Binoy would have emphatically asserted, had he been arguing with someone else. But now he found it hard to insist, whether from timidity, or whether his heart on this occasion was unwilling to go so far as to declare categorically: ‘I believe in caste distinctions’, it cannot be said for certain. Lest the argument go too far, Poresh intervened at this point.
‘Radhé, send for your mother and all the others,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce him to them.’
Sucharita left the room, with Satish prancing along by her side as he chattered away. After a while, she returned to say: ‘Baba, Ma wants you to come to the terrace upstairs.’
~9~
Upstairs, on the terrace above the portico, chowkis were arranged around a table covered with a white cloth. On the cornice beyond the railing, crotons and flowering plants grew in tiny flowerpots. From the terrace, one could see the rain-washed, glossy foliage of the acacia and gulmohar trees that lined the edges of the street. The sun had not yet vanished; from the western sky, the fading sunshine slanted down upon one end of the balcony.
The terrace was deserted at that hour. Soon, Satish arrived there, accompanied by a small black-and-white dog named Khudé, the tiny one. Satish had the dog display all its tricks for Binoy’s benefit. It saluted with one paw, bowed its head to the ground in a pranam, knelt on its hind legs to beg for a biscuit. Satish basked in reflected glory, taking all the credit for Khudé’s accomplishments. Khudé had no interest in earning such glory. In fact, the biscuit meant much more to him than fame.
From a room somewhere wafted occasional bursts of female laughter and merriment, accompanied by a single male voice. The sound of such unchecked mirth filled Binoy’s heart with exquisite tenderness, mingled with aching envy. Never before in all his life had he heard such joyous female gaiety emanate from a room. The source of this sweet exuberance was so close to him, and yet he was so far removed from it! Binoy found it impossible to focus on what Satish was babbling, close to his ear.
Poreshbabu’s wife now appeared on the terrace, accompanied by her three daughters. With them was a young man, a distant relative.
Poreshbabu’s wife was called Borodasundari. She was not young, but had clearly dressed with special care. Having followed the provincial mode until she grew up, she had suddenly, at one point, become desperate to keep abreast of modern trends. So her silk sari rustled too much, and her high heeled shoes clattered too loudly. She was always extremely alert about the distinctions between what was Brahmo, and what was not. That was why she had changed Radharani’s name to Sucharita. One of the elders in her in-laws’ family, having returned after a long stint of work abroad, had sent them presents for the Jamaisashthi ritual in honour of sons-in-law. Poreshababu was away on business at the time. Borodasundari had returned all the Jamaisashthi gifts. She regarded such things as social evils, forms of idol-worship. She considered it a part of the Brahmo worldview for women to sport socks or hats when going outdoors. But seeing people use asanas on the floor at a Brahmo family meal, she had voiced the fear that the Brahmo Samaj was now lapsing back into idol-worship.
Labanya was her eldest daughter. She was chubby and jovial, fond of company and conversation. Round of face, with large eyes and a dark, glowing complexion, she was by nature careless about her dress and appearance, but had to follow her mother’s dictates in such matters. Though uncomfortable in high-heeled shoes, she had no choice but to wear them. When it was time for the evening toilette, her mother personally powdered her face and patted colour on her cheeks. Because she was somewhat plump, Borodasundari had her blouses stitched so tight that Labanya emerged looking like a trussed-up machine-stuffed jute sack.
The second daughter was named Lalita. Taller than her didi, thinner and darker, she could be described as the very opposite of the elder daughter. She said little and followed her own whims, and could be sharp-tongued if she chose. Borodasundari was secretly scared of her, and usually did not dare to provoke her.
The youngest, Leela, was about ten years of age, a tomboy, always engaged in physical tussles with Satish. In particular, the two of them had not yet agreed upon the true ownership of Khudé the dog. Had the dog been consulted, he would probably not have chosen either; but still, between the two, he probably had a slight preference for Satish. For it was not easy for this tiny creature to withstand the force of Leela’s caresses. It was relatively easier for him to tolerate the boy’s authority rather than the girl’s affection.
As soon as Borodasundari appeared, Binoy arose and bent to greet her with a pranam.
‘It was at his house, the other day, that we …’ Poreshbabu explained.
‘Oh!’ said Boroda. ‘You were a great help. Many thanks.’
Binoy was too embarrassed to reply. He was also introduced to the young man named Sudhir who had accompanied the girls. He was in college, studying for his B.A. degree. His appearance was pleasant, his complexion fair; he wore glasses, and had a thin moustache on his upper lip. He seemed extremely restless, unable to sit still for long, always rearing to go. He would constantly joke with the girls and tease them, never allowing them a moment’s peace. The girls, too, would keep reprimanding him, yet they could not manage without Sudhir. He was always ready to take them to the circus or the Zoological Gardens, or to buy them something they fancied. Sudhir’s easy familiarity with women struck Binoy as a complete novelty, quite amazing. At first he metally condemned such behaviour, but a tinge of envy began to colour this critical attitude.
‘I think I have seen you at the Samaj, once or twice,’ Borodasundari remarked.
Binoy felt as if he had been caught out in some crime. ‘Yes, I go there sometimes, to listen to Keshabbabu’s lectures,’ he admitted, with unwarranted embarrassment.
‘You’re a college student I suppose?’ Borodasundari inquired.
‘No, I am not in college anymore.’
‘What is the extent of your college education?’
‘I have received my M.A. degree.’
Borodasundari felt a certain respect for this boyish-looking young man. ‘If my Monu had been here today, he too would have acquired an M.A. degree by now,’ she sighed, glancing at Poresh.
Boroda’s first child Monoranjan had died at nine. Whenever she heard of any young man obtaining a major degree, attaining a high professional position, writing a good book, or doing something worthwhile, Boroda would immediately assume that if Monu had lived, he would have accomplished exactly the same things. But since he was no more, it was now one of Borodasundari’s special duties to publicize the talents of her three daughters. She made a point of informing Binoy that her daughters were studying very hard. Nor was he left in the dark as to how their white governess, the mem, had praised the daughters’ intelligence and accomplishments on various occasions. Binoy was also told of the time when Labanya had been specially selected from among all the girls in her school, to present flowers to the Lieutenant Governor and his wife when they visited the girls’ school on prize-distribution day; and of the sweet words of encouragement that the Governor’s wife had spoken to Labanya.
‘Ma, my little one, fetch your prize-winning piece of embroidery!’ Boroda urged Labanya, finally. A parrot, embroidered in silk, had gained considerable fame among relatives and friends of the family. Labanya had created this piece long ago with the mem’s assistance; nor did Labanya herself deserve much of the credit for this work of art; but it was taken for granted that every new acquaintance must be shown this creation. Poresh would object at first, but now he no longer resisted, realizing the futility of such protests. As Binoy gazed in wide-eyed amazement at the artistry that had produced the silken parrot, the bearer brought a letter for Poresh.
‘Bring Babu upstairs,’ Poreshbabu instructed, cheering up as he read the letter.
‘Who is it?’ Boroda wanted to know.
‘My childhood friend Krishnadayal has sent his son to meet us,’ Poresh informed her.
Binoy’s heart suddenly skipped a beat, and his face grew pale. T
he next moment, he clenched his fists and stiffened his body, as if bracing himself for a confrontation with some adversary. He seemed already flustered, anticipating that Gora would view this family with disrespect, and pass judgement on them.
~10~
Having arranged tea and snacks on a khunche, Sucharita handed the small tray to the attendant and came up to the terrace. At that moment, Gora also arrived on the scene, escorted by the bearer.
Everyone was wonderstruck at Gora’s tall, fair figure and his attire. His forehead was marked with a tilak of sacred Ganga soil. He wore a coarse dhoti, a knotted upper garment and a wrap made of rough fabric. His feet were shod in Cuttack shoes with pointed, curling toes. He was the living image of rebellion against the modern age. Even Binoy had never seen him in such garb.
Gora’s heart was indeed aflame with revolt today. He had reason to feel rebellious. The previous day, a steamer-company had set out at dawn with a group of passengers going to Triveni for their ritual holy bath during the eclipse. On the way, hordes of female passengers boarded at each station, accompanied by a few male guardians. The urgency of finding a place caused a great deal of pushing and shoving. With their muddy feet, some lost their balance during the tussle and fell off the boarding plank into the water in an unguarded moment; some were pushed off by the seamen; some managed to clamber on board, but were desperate because their companions had been left behind; sometimes, a shower of rain would drench their bodies; their seating area on board was soiled with mud. Their expression was anxious, agitated and pathetic. They were feeble, but knew they were so insignificant that nobody, from oarsmen to captain, would offer them the slightest assistance in response to their pleas; hence there was a terrified pathos in their struggles. In this situation, Gora was trying to help the passengers as much as possible. On the first class deck above, an Englishman and a Bengali of the modern breed were leaning on the railing, engaged in good-humoured conversation, watching the entertaining spectacle as they smoked their cigars. From time to time, seeing a passenger suffer some sudden mishap, the Englishman would burst out laughing, and the Bengali would also join in his mirth. Having crossed two or three stations in this fashion, Gora could bear it no longer. He ascended to the upper deck.
‘Shame on you! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?’ he roared in his thunderous voice.
The Englishman glared at Gora, surveying him from head to toe.
‘Ashamed?’ the Bengali replied. ‘One is ashamed of all the idiots in this country, no better than animals!’
‘There can be people even more bestial than idiots; they are the ones with no heart!’ retorted Gora, his colour high.
‘You don’t belong here!’ cried the Bengali, enraged. ‘This place is reserved for first class passengers!’
‘No, you and I don’t belong together,’ replied Gora. ‘My place is with those passengers over there. But let me warn you in parting, don’t compel me to enter this class of yours again.’
With these words, Gora marched down to the lower level. The Englishman immersed himself in a novel, lounging on the armchair with his legs on the armrests. His Bengali co-passenger made a couple of attempts to revive their conversation, but failed to generate much warmth. To prove that he did not belong to the ordinary masses, he sent for the khansama and enquired if any chicken dish was available.
‘No, only bread-and-butter with tea,’ replied the attendant.
‘Their arrangements for our creature comforts are appalling!’ complained the Bengali in English, for the Englishman’s benefit. The Englishman did not reply. A gust of wind blew his newspaper off the table. The Bengali babu rose to pick it up, but received no thanks. While disembarking at Chandannagar, the saheb suddenly went up to Gora and raised his hat.
‘I’m sorry about the way I behaved,’ he apologized. ‘I hope you will forgive me.’ He hurried away.
But Gora seethed with indignation at the arrogance of an educated Bengali who could invite a foreigner to join him in mocking at the plight of the masses. Gora’s heart seemed to burst with anguish at the deep-seated, nationwide ignorance at the root of his countrymen’s submission to all sorts of humiliation and ill-treatment, for even when abused like animals, all of them would accept it as natural and appropriate. But what galled him most was the educated class’s indifference towards the nation’s constant degradation and misery. Such people could heartlessly remain aloof and bask in glory without any qualms. When he came and stood proudly before the Brahmo family, it was to show his complete disregard for the bookish and imitative ways of the educated class that Gora had applied Ganga-soil to his forehead and bought an odd pair of Cuttack sandals to wear. Binoy privately sensed that Gora had come armed for battle. Uncertain of what Gora might do, Binoy felt a sense of apprehension, mingled with embarrassment and a will to resist.
While Borodasundari was conversing with Binoy, Satish had been obliged to amuse himself, spinning a tin top in a corner of the terrace. When he saw Gora, his top-spinning came to a halt; he crept close to Binoy and stared at Gora. ‘Is this your friend?’ he whispered to Binoy.
‘Yes.’
When Gora arrived on the terrace, he glanced at Binoy’s face for a fraction of a second, but after that, seemed not to notice him at all. Greeting Poresh with a namaskar, he dragged a chowki away from the table and seated himself without any embarrassment. He deemed it uncivil to notice the presence of women anywhere on the scene. Borodasundari had almost decided to take her daughters away from this uncouth person’s company, when Poresh informed her:
‘This is Gourmohan, my friend Krishnadayal’s son.’
Gora now turned to greet her with a namaskar. Although Sucharita had already heard about Gora from Binoy, she had not realized that this visitor was indeed Binoy’s friend. At very first sight, she resented Gora. It was not in her upbringing or temperament to tolerate such extreme Hindu fanaticism in a person with an English education.
Poresh asked Gora for news of his childhood friend Krishnadayal. Then, speaking of his own student days, he mused: ‘We were quite a twosome those days. Great iconoclasts, we believed in nothing. We only considered dining at restaurants a worthwhile duty. How many evenings we’d spend at Goldighi, devouring kababs from a Muslim shop, arguing into the wee hours about ways to reform Hindu society!’
‘What does he do now?’ Borodasundari wanted to know.
‘Now he follows the Hindu code,’ Gora informed her.
‘Isn’t he ashamed of himself?’ asked Boroda, aflame with rage.
‘Shame is a sign of weakness,’ smiled Gora. ‘Some people are ashamed of acknowledging their own fathers.’
‘Wasn’t he a Brahmo earlier?’ Boroda inquired.
‘Even I was a Brahmo once,’ Gora retorted.
‘Do you believe in image worship now?’
‘I am not superstitious enough to disrespect the concept of embodied form without any reason. Does form diminish if abused? Has anyone penetrated the mystery of form?’
‘But form is finite,’ Poreshbabu gently pointed out.
‘Without finitude, there can be no expression,’ Gora argued. ‘The infinite takes refuge in the finite only to manifest itself, else how would it find expression? That which remains unexpressed cannot be complete. The formless finds completion in form, just as the idea is fulfilled in words.’
‘Would you say that form is more complete than the formless?’ exclaimed Boroda, shaking her head.
‘Even if I didn’t say so, it would make no difference. The status of form in this world does not depend upon what I say. If the formless were truly complete, there would be no place for form at all.’
Sucharita longed for someone to utterly vanquish this high-handed young man in argument, leaving him humiliated. She was secretly angry with Binoy for listening to Gora in silence. Gora spoke so forcefully that Sucharita also felt a powerful inward urge to subdue him.
Just then, the bearer arrived with a kettle of hot water for tea. Sucharita got up and busied herse
lf making tea. Every now and then Binoy shot a quick glance at her face. Although Gora and Binoy did not differ much in their views about forms of worship, Binoy was troubled at the way Gora was unhesitatingly flaunting his contrary views before this Brahmo family, after joining them uninvited. In contrast to Gora’s militant behaviour, the elderly Poresh’s manner displayed a self-contained calm, a profound grace transcending all argument, which filled Binoy’s heart with devotion. ‘Opinions don’t matter,’ he told himself. ‘For the mind and soul, wholeness, stability and self-satisfaction are the rarest values of all. Much as we may argue about the truth or falsehood of words, when it comes to attainment, only the truth is real.’ In the midst of the conversation, Poresh habitually closed his eyes from time to time, to sound the depths of his own heart. At such moments, Binoy closely observed his self-absorbed, tranquil expression. He was extremely disturbed at Gora’s failure to restrain his words in deference to this old man.
Sucharita poured a few cups of tea, and glanced at Poresh, unsure who should receive their hospitality.
‘You won’t accept anything to eat, will you?’ Borodasundari blurted out pointedly, looking at Gora. ‘No.’
‘Why?’ asked Borodasundari. ‘Will you lose your caste purity?’
‘Yes,’ Gora replied.
‘Do you believe in caste?’ Boroda inquired.
‘Is caste of my own making, that I should reject it?’ Gora demanded. ‘If I believe in my community, I must believe in caste as well.’
‘Must you believe in everything the community prescribes?’
‘To disbelieve would be to destroy the community.’
‘What harm in that?’
‘What harm in sawing off the very branch we occupy?’
‘Ma, why argue in vain?’ protested Sucharita, inwardly disgusted. ‘He will not accept any food that we have touched.’
For a moment, Gora rested his sharp gaze upon Sucharita’s face.
Gora (Modern Classics) Page 7