Stepping into the garden, Robi found his Jyotidada giving some instructions to the majhis. ‘Come Robi,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided we’ll spend the whole night on the Ganga. The sky has never been so beautiful.’
‘Ki go!’ Kadambari smiled at her brother-in-law. ‘You were locked up in your room all day! How much poetry have you written?’
‘A little. But I’ve left a great deal unwritten. And that, I believe, is the real thing. I’ve been struggling all day to find those lines but someone casts a shadow over them and I can’t see beyond it.’
Jyotirindra’s boat was a two-roomed bajra with a square roof surrounded by a railing. Here he sat, violin in hand, on a Persian carpet his back resting against a velvet cushion. Robi and Kadambari sat facing him. As soon as the boat moved away from the shore Jyotirindranath touched the bow of his violin to the tautened strings making sky and river reverberate to the haunting melody of Raag Puravi. The sun had set but the west was luminous with streaks of gold even as the banks grew dim with twilight. And, as darkness came creeping on, other sounds came floating over the water mingling with the strains of Jyotirindra’s music—a tinkling of bells from a faraway temple; the call of a muezzin, eerie and indistinct, from a distant mosque. Jyoti put down his violin and said,’Sing a song Robi.’
‘Sing ‘É ki é sundar shobha,’ Kadambari prompted.
‘That is not Raag Puravi,’ Jyotirindra smiled at his wife. ‘It is Iman Bhupali Qawali and—’
‘Never mind,’ Kadambari cut him short. ‘I want to hear it.’ Robi commenced singing, his eyes downcast. Jyotirindra poured himself a glassful of expensive French brandy and sipped it slowly. The moment the song came to an end Kadambari said, ‘Sing another.’ This time Robi did not wait for a request. Fixing his large, dark eyes on his sister-in-law, he sang a composition in Alaiya Jhanptal—Tomaréi koriyachhi jeevan ér dhrubata tara, É samudré aar kabhu haba na ko patha haara. ‘It’s barely dusk,’ Jyotirindra laughed. ‘The dhruba taara hasn’t risen yet.’
The gold of the west was melting away little by little and the dark shadows of night crept slowly up the eastern horizon when, suddenly, a moon danced out from behind some clouds and flooded sky, earth and river in a torrent of molten silver. The boat floated on as if in a dream. Robi’s young voice, throbbing with anguish, mingled with the yearning strains of his brother’s violin.
Kadambari joined her voice to his from time to time swaying her head to the music. The three, wrapped in a mist of their own creation, had never known such ecstasy.
It was Jyotirindra who broke the spell. ‘Oré!’ he called out to the majhis. ‘We’ve come a long way. Turn the boat.’ Kadambari’s head shot up. ‘So soon? But you’ve only just started on Behaag. I thought we would return with Bhairavi.’ Jyotirindra smiled at his wife. ‘What shall I play on our way back then? There is no raag after Bhairavi and I hate sleeping on a boat.’
Suddenly another whim seized Jyoti. ‘We’re close to Palta!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come Robi. Let’s swim across to Gunodada’s house. He’ll be so happy to see us.’
Their cousin Gunendranath had bought a beautiful property at Palta and was living there with his wife and children. It was possible to row the boat to the front steps of the house but, looking on the vast expanse of swollen silvery water before him, Jyoti couldn’t resist the temptation of plunging into it. ‘Come Robi,’ he repeated but Kadambari grasped Robi’s arm and cried, ‘No, Robi won’t go. He won’t.’ Jyotirindra smiled. His wife didn’t object too much to his undertaking anything hazardous. But she was overprotective of Robi. She wouldn’t let him grow up.
After all-night revels such as this Jyotirindra and Kadambari slept soundly till long after daybreak. But Robi rose with the dawn and wandered about in the garden and by the side of the river. Whatever he saw–be it a flight of birds against a flame-coloured sky or an old man rubbing his back with a gamchha, it filled him with wonder. At such times he was overwhelmed by the thought that even the most trivial thing in the universe was imbued with a deep meaning. Only, it eluded him and the more he strained and agonized to give it expression in his verses the further it slipped away. Would he ever achieve fame as a poet? The thought haunted him day and night. He had authored four volumes of poetry. But, barring a few friends and relatives, no one bought his books. He knew, of course, that great poetry never won instant recognition. He would have to be patient. But was he on the right path?
Robi had achieved a measure of popularity in Calcutta and even beyond it. But it was for other things. He had a sweet voice, supple and mellifluous, to which the passing years had added strength and clarity. He was also a fine actor. All the plays performed in Jorasanko had Robi in the lead role and the intellectual elite of the city flocked to see him. Reverend Keshto Banerjee had been lavish in his praise of Robi’s performance in Balmiki Pratibha and had honoured him with the title of Balmiki Kokil. The young men of the city copied him in dress and manner. But cheap popularity of this kind could not satisfy Robi. Neither was he interested in making a mark as a singer or actor. Poetry was his first love and he wanted to be a great poet. He had written poetry from childhood upwards and rhyming words and phrases came easily to him. The trouble was that he couldn’t strike the right note. Tragedy became pathos in his verses and ecstasy effusion. He was trapped in a cage of self and could not go beyond it. His poetry was too subjective. It lacked universality. Robi sensed this drawback and admitted it but he didn’t know how to overcome it.
Robi’s relations tried to encourage the boy with lavish praise. With one exception. Kadambari, to whom all his work was dedicated, was his sternest critic. She was always the first to read his poems, snatching the manuscript from his hand if he showed the slightest reluctance. But her comments were invariably adverse. ‘Whatever you may say Robi,’ she would smile and shake her head at her young brother-in-law, ‘As a poet you are still far below the best. Your songs are passable but Biharilal’s poetry is superior to yours.’ Comparison with Biharilal Chakraborty always infuriated Robi. He would tear his verses to pieces and start all over again. Kadambari knew it and never stopped needling him in an effort to bring out the best in him. Robi, on his part, was driven by a fierce craving to win his sister-in-law’s approval. He had tried emulating Biharilal’s style in Balmiki Pratibha but was dissatisfied with the result. Surely there was some other way.
Though barely twenty, Robi had distinguished himself as a writer of prose. Unmarred by excessive alliteration and metaphorical elaborations, his language was neat, lucid, precise and incisive. There was logic in his arguments and humour and irony in his observations. His essays, ranging from subjects like World Literature, Music and Philosophy to Ancient History, Art, Culture and Religion testified to the span and variety of his reading. Unfortunately, they brought him no fame for few were aware of his talent. The articles were printed anonymously in Bharati, and no one connected him with the fiery pieces that appeared week after week. Except, of course, for the few inmates of Jorasanko who knew his style and recognized it.
‘O Robi!’ Jyotirindranath exclaimed one morning at breakfast. ‘I forgot to tell you. A man brought a letter yesterday evening. Two gentlemen from Tripura are coming to see you this morning.’
‘Why?’
‘How do I know? I’ve heard that the Maharaja of Tripura hires tutors from Calcutta. Maybe he wants you as tutor to his sons.’
‘Robi a tutor!’ Kadambari giggled. She was crocheting a square of lace with someone’s name in the centre. Robi could discern two letters but was not sure what they were.
‘Of course!’ Jyoti exclaimed. ‘I remember now. The Maharaja’s name is Birchand. Or is it Bhiruchand? No, the kings of Tripura call themselves Manikya. Biru Manikya is the name. He has the grand design of keeping nine gems in his court—like Emperor Akbar. He has spirited Jadu Bhatta away from Bengal. Now it is your turn Robi.’
‘I don’t want to meet them.’
‘Why not?’ Kadambari cried. ‘You’ll be court poet. Think of the
prestige. And we’ll go to Tripura to visit you.’ Robi fixed his eyes on his Natun Bouthan’s face. There was pain in them and incomprehension.
‘Of course you’ll meet them,’ Jyotirindra said. ‘There’s no harm in listening to their proposals. These native rajas are strange creatures. Some spend lakhs of rupees on a kitten’s wedding; some marry five hundred women. Ghiyas-ud-din, Sultan of Mandu, kept fifteen thousand women in his harem. Even his bodyguards were women. Another raja, so I’ve heard, eats six parothas for breakfast fried in thirty seers of ghee. These fellows don’t wage wars anymore so they don’t need a defence budget. They blow up all the money of the state on their whims.’
‘I’m going in,’ Kadambari rose from her chair. ‘The gentlemen will be here any moment now.’
‘Why do you have to leave? Mejo Bouthan did not hesitate to meet the Viceroy. And you’re afraid of a native king’s ambassadors.’
‘There are many things your Mejo Bouthan can do,’ Kadambari replied striving to keep her voice under control, ‘which I can’t. You know that very well.’ And she walked away with her accustomed grace and dignity.
‘Do you know what happened at the Viceroy’s garden party Robi?’ Jyoti asked turning his eyes away from his wife’s departing back, ‘Our kinsman Prasanna Thakur mistook Mejo Bouthan for Begum Sikander of Bhopal. Then, when he realized that she was a daughter-in-law of the Thakurs, he left the place in a huff.’
‘Begum Sikander has named her daughter Shah Jehan, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes. She’s very strong and masculine in looks and temperament. Though she’s a Muslim aristocrat, she has shed the purdah.’
A few minutes later Radharaman and Shashibhushan came in followed by a servant carrying a basket of gifts. ‘We’ve come to meet Rabindra Babu,’ Radharaman said. ‘Here he is,’ Jyotirindra answered. ‘This is my younger brother Robi.’ The two men stared in amazement. They had heard that the poet was young. But so young? His face had the soft contours of a child and his eyes were luminous with innocence and trust. A shade of embarrassment came into them at Radharaman’s greeting. ‘O Poet!’ the latter cried in sonorous tones, ‘Most humbly and respectfully we present ourselves at the behest of his Royal Majesty Sreel Srijukta Birchandra Manikya, Maharaja of Tripura and bring to you the message that he has been deeply moved by your book of verse Bhagna Hriday and has sent you, as a token of his appreciation, a few gifts and a citation.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Jyotirindra exclaimed. ‘It means Robi’s fame has spread beyond Bengal to other states.’
Radharaman read out the citation and proceeded to tell the poet of the circumstances in which the Maharaja had read Bhagna Hriday. Robi felt his heart lift with triumph. If his verses could bring consolation to even one soul in grief there must be some good in them. And the man was no ordinary man. He was a king and a connoisseur of poetry.
After the messengers had departed Jyoti said curiously, ‘Let’s see what the king has sent. Open the basket Robi.’ Taking the cover off they found a shawl, a pair of dhutis and two ivory figurines wrapped in a piece of silk. Nestling underneath these presents was a small velvet pouch with five gold coins in it. ‘Not bad,’ Jyotirindra laughed, ‘though one can hardly call it royal munificence.’
An hour later, after Jyotirindranath had left for Calcutta, Robi went into the house to look for his Natun Bouthan. But she was not to be found in any of the rooms. Then, wandering all over the grounds, he found her in the orchard sitting on a patch of grass her back resting against the trunk of a jackfruit tree. Her eyes, gazing out on the river, had a blank, dazed expression. ‘Natun Bouthan,’ Robi called softly. Kadambari turned her face towards him but did not speak. Robi’s heart sank. He had expected her to turn eagerly to him; to ask a hundred questions; to read the citation and look excitedly through the gifts laughing and teasing him all the while.
‘The Maharaja of Tripura has read Bhagna Hriday and liked it,’ he said, adding shyly, ‘He has sent two of his officials to offer me a citation and some presents. Aren’t you pleased?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Kadambari replied indifferently. ‘Everyone who knows you will be happy at your success.’ A shadow fell over Robi’s face. ‘Bhagna Hriday is yours,’ he said in a pleading voice. ‘If anyone deserves the citation it is you.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Won’t you look through the presents?’
‘I will, later.’ Kadambari rose and walked towards the house. ‘Is anything wrong?’ Robi followed her. ‘Are you unhappy about something?’ ‘No,’ Kadambari sighed and shook her head. ‘There is nothing wrong.’
‘Why were you packing me off to Tripura? Were you trying to get rid of me?’
‘I don’t have to. You’ll go anyway. Your work will become more brilliant by the day and your fame will reach the ends of the earth. The wide world will claim you for its own. How can I hope to keep you to myself? And why should I?’
‘I’ll never leave you. Be sure of that.’
‘No Robi. I’m nothing—nothing. You’ll find other people more worthy of reading your poems for the first time.’
‘Don’t talk like that. I can’t live away from you. You’re everything to me.’
‘But you went away to England last year leaving me alone in Jorasanko. Your Natunda is so busy—he has no time for me. I was so lonely. I felt like a prisoner locked up in my room—’
‘I thought of you all the time and everything I wrote was for you. The poems of Bhagna Hriday are all yours.’
Kadambari stood quietly for a few minutes, her face buried in her arm. Then, suddenly changing her voice and manner, she said ‘Oh yes, I wanted to ask you something. Why is the dedication to Srimati Hé?’
‘It was meant for you.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that!’
‘No one will guess the truth. You’re Hemangini. You’re Hecate. Only the two of us know that.’
‘That’s what you think. I was Hemangini and you were Alik in the play Alik Babu. A lot of people have seen it. Besides, everyone knows you call me Hecate.’
‘Let people think what they will. I shall write as I please.’ A note of joy crept into Robi’s voice. Kadambari’s mood had changed. A little smile was flickering at the corners of her mouth. He ran into the house and came back with the bundle of gifts to find Kadambari rocking herself gently from the swing and humming a little tune. Seating himself on the grass he took out the purse of gold and touched it to her feet. Then, placing the ivory figurines on her lap, he said, ‘They’re yours Devi. Everything I have is yours.’
‘I don’t want anything,’ Kadambari lowered her face till it was on a level with his. ‘Bhanu,’ she whispered, ‘Sing a song for me.’
The days passed, thus, one by one. Jyotirindranath had started a new business and was working day and night. He embarked on one project after another with tremendous enthusiasm only to lose a great deal of money each time. He was away for long stretches and Robi and Kadambari were left to themselves. They spent hours together reading poetry, singing and chasing one another around the garden. When Kadambari sat swinging by herself Robi picked armfuls of flowers and leaves and twined them around the ropes till the swing became a leafy bower. When they neither sang nor talked nor played they sat gazing into one another’s eyes and their silence held a special meaning. In the evenings they sat on the steps of the river, their feet in the water, their eager eyes scanning the boats that went swaying past. Could that be Jyotirindra’s boat? But, more often than not, they were disappointed. Jyotirindranath did not return.
Winter passed into spring and spring gave way to summer. And now it was the month of Ashadh. Thick dark clouds started massing over the horizon and heavy rain pelted down on the river that swelled and foamed with swift currents. Robi and Kadambari had never been happier. Sometimes a storm broke over their heads taking them by surprise. Then they ran, hand in hand, through the trees like a couple of children, their hearts pounding with fear at the sound of the thunder. But how sweet w
as the fear! Laughter bubbled up from within and poured out of their throats, the happy sounds mingling with the swish of swaying branches and the sweet patter of raindrops on the leaves.
One day something happened that Robi was to remember all his life. It was the middle of the morning. Robi had locked himself in the Round Room and was writing with intense concentration. He had just completed seven pages of a new novel, then taken a break to write a couple of poems in Braja Bhasha. Robi had written several poems of this kind under the pseudonym Bhanu Singh. These were in the style of his current favourite-the poet Vidyapati. Kadambari loved Vidyapati’s verses and addressed Robi as Bhanu when they were alone together.
Taking up his novel once more Robi discovered that he was hungry. And, at that moment, he suddenly remembered that they had planned a picnic in the woods that morning. Kadambari was to cook under the trees and he and Jyotidada were to sing to her. Leaving his papers scattered about, he ran in the direction of the spot they had chosen. A strange sight met his eyes. Under a spreading roseapple tree Kadambari waited, her face as stark and immobile as the marble stool she sat on. A clay oven, arranged with kindling but unlit, stood in front of her and mounds of rice, dal, spices and vegetables lay scattered about. There was no sign of Jyotirindranath.
Robi’s heart missed a beat. Kneeling at her feet he brought his palms together and said in a pleading voice. ‘Forgive me, Bouthan. I was so caught up in my writing that I forgot about our picnic. Why didn’t you send for me?’ Kamabari looked at him with stony eyes but did not speak a word. Robi ran into the house to call his Jyotidada but the servants told him that Natunbabu had left the house at dawn. No one knew when he would return. Now Robi was truly frightened. Natun Bouthan was very sensitive and easily hurt. She was also prone to deep depressions. At such times she withdrew into a shell refusing to communicate with anybody. A few months back she had, in a depressed state, tried to take her own life.
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