‘How long have you been in Baroda?’
‘Seven years.’
‘That’s too short a time to forget your mother tongue.’ Aurobindo smiled. The story of his life, he told Bharat, was strange; unlike anyone else’s. He had never known mother’s love as a child. She was insane and had been so for as long as he could remember. His father was a famous civil surgeon and a pukka sahib. Aurobindo and his two elder brothers had received their primary education from Loretto Convent in Darjeeling. Then the whole family had moved to London where his youngest brother Barindra was born. After some years his parents had returned to India with the infant Barin. The others had been left behind in England. Their father had sent them money from time to time, at first, but soon the sums stopped coming and the boys were left to fend for themselves. Aurobindo had spent the next fourteen years in England. His parents, it seemed, had forgotten that he existed. It was in England that Aurobindo had met the Gaekwad of Baroda. Impressed with the youth’s learning, the former had offered him a job and taken him along with him to his kingdom. Through his fourteen years’ sojourn in a foreign land Aurobindo had tried to cling to his memories of the Bengali alphabet, to which he had been introduced as a child, and could still recognize the letters.
‘Amazing!’ Bharat exclaimed.
‘Bengali is our language,’ Aurobindo continued, ‘and its literature our pride. Where in the world can you find a writer of the quality of Bankim?’
‘Have you read Robi Babu?’
‘No, but I’ve heard of him. I must get hold of some volumes of his poetry when I’m in Calcutta. What do you do in Patna?’
‘Nothing,’ Bharat answered with a smile ‘I’m going there to look for a means of living.’
‘Is Patna a good place for that?’
‘Not really. I had to go somewhere. So I thought—why not Patna?’
‘Why don’t you come to Baroda? English-speaking young men like you can easily find employment there. Besides, I could appeal to the Maharaja on your behalf. He’ll never turn down a recommendation of mine.’ Then, warming to his theme, Aurobindo continued, ‘Why don’t you come with me to Deoghar for the present? My grandfather would be happy to offer you his hospitality. And, then, we could go back to Baroda together.’
‘But my ticket is up to Patna!’
‘That can be easily remedied. We’ll extend it to Joshidi by paying the difference. Meeting you was really lucky for me. I was looking for someone to help me with my Bengali.’
Bharat smiled and shook his head. ‘Not this time,’ he said, ‘I have some personal work in Patna which needs immediate attention. But I’ll keep your offer in mind and come and see you in Baroda.’ He wondered how his new friend would react if he knew that Bharat had been held on the charge of a murder conspiracy and was just out of jail.
On reaching Deoghar, the first thing Aurobindo did was to bathe and change into a dhuti and kurta of coarse cotton from the mills of Ahmedabad. Lighting a cigarette he asked the old family retainer who was hovering around, ‘Where’s Barin?’
‘Where else?’ the old man pushed his lower lip out in sullen indignation. ‘That whore keeps showing up from time to time. And he runs off to her. There’s no stopping him.’
Aurobindo threw his cigarette away and came to the room where his grandfather Rajnarayan Bosu lay on his bed. He was paralysed from neck downwards but he could lift his arm just a little. Looking on him, with his great thatch of snow white hair and merry black eyes, no one could guess that he was dying a slow, weary death. ‘Ki ré Aura!’ he exclaimed, smiling up at his grandson. ‘You’ve grown into a really big boy. And I hear great things of you. They say you have enough learning in your head to put a dozen pandits to shame. Come, come closer.’ Lifting a trembling hand the old man stroked the boy’s cheeks and chin.
‘How old are you Aura?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Twenty-seven! And still unwed!’ Rajnarayan Bosu gave a great cackle of laughter. ‘An eligible boy like you with a job as a king’s secretary! Do you mean to tell me that the girls’ fathers have left you alone all these years? Very bad,’ he bared his toothless gums in a grin and wagged his snowy beard, ‘We must remedy the situation at once. I haven’t eaten at a wedding feast for years. How I long to dip my hand, right up to the wrist, in a rich mutton curry!’
‘I’m not ready for marriage yet Dada Moshai.’ Aurobindo’s grandfather pretended he hadn’t heard. ‘I’ll look around for a suitable bride,’ he said. ‘Brahmo girls are being well educated these days. You won’t have a problem conversing with your wife. By the way, haven’t the Congress netas got to you yet? From what I hear it’s a den of anglophiles. They’ll snap you up.’
‘I have no faith in the Congress. It’s completely out of touch with the needs of the people. All the leaders do is curry favour with the Government.’ He rose to leave. ‘You must rest now Dada Moshai. I’ll see you again in the evening.’
Coming out of his grandfather’s room Aurobindo lit a cigarette and waited for his brother. Barin came home towards noon. His face was flushed and his eyes secretive. Aurobindo looked on him with affection. ‘Where were you?’ he asked. ‘I heard you left home early this morning.’
‘I was with Ranga Ma,’ the boy answered shuffling his feet. ‘Don’t you have school today?’
‘Ranga Ma wouldn’t let me come away without a meal.’ His face started working and tears glistened in his eyes. ‘Why can’t I stay in her house, Sejda? No one loves me here except Dadu. If you would only tell Bara Mama—’
Aurobindo ruffled the boy’s hair. This little brother of his was even more unfortunate than he was. After trying out a variety of treatments without success on his mad wife, Swarnalata, Dr Krishnadhan Ghosh had decided to keep her in a house in Rohini with his two youngest children. For himself he had taken a mistress and, moving with her to a house in Gomes Lane in Calcutta, he had proceeded, like many of his ancestors, to drown his sorrows in drink. Barin and his sister were left to grow like weeds in the fearful shadow of their violent, insane mother. She would beat them mercilessly whenever the whim took her, then cackle with laughter to see them weep. They tried to run away several times but were easily caught and brought back to be beaten black and blue. One day Krishnadhan Ghosh came to Rohini and was appalled at what he saw. The children were emaciated from lack of proper nourishment and their eyes had the furtive look of living with constant terror. He realized that if he left them where they were they would grow up as ignorant and uncouth as street children. He requested Swarnalata to let him take them away. But, though she gave up her daughter quite readily, the mad mother refused to part with her son. Separated from his sister Barin’s life became harder than ever.
One evening, as Barin was playing in the garden, a big ferocious looking man walked in. Approaching Swarnalata, who sat on a bench under the bakul tree, he said, ‘Would you like to buy some flowers Memsaheb?’ Then, throwing the basket of flowers at her feet, he clutched Barin’s hand and, pulling him along with him, ran out of the gate into the street.
Recovering from her initial shock and bewilderment in a few seconds, Swarnalata ran into the kitchen and picked up a long evil-looking knife. With this in her hand she chased the kidnapper but, her clothes restricting her movements, she wasn’t able to catch up with him. Dragging the weeping, protesting boy over the rough, uneven ground his abductor look him to the station and hauled him into a train to Calcutta.
When they reached the house in Gomes Lane, the next morning, Barin’s body was a mass of bruises and he had fainted from fear and exhaustion. On regaining consciousness, he felt a soft hand stroking his face and arms and a sweet voice murmuring in his ear, ‘Oh! My poor baby! My lump of gold. How you have suffered!’ Little Barin had never heard such words in his life, nor such a voice. From that day onwards the tall beautiful woman, who was his father’s mistress, become Barin’s Ranga Ma.
It was Krishnadhan’s great good fortune that he had found himself a woman whose beauty o
f mind and soul matched that of her exquisite face and form. It was she who had insisted that he take his children away from the mad woman and give them proper care and education. While Krishnadhan lived she had been, to him, all that a wife should be. She had given him a happy home, been a mother to his children and had even, by gentle persuasion, weaned him away from his drink.
But on Krishnadhan’s death, everything changed. He had made a will in which, after setting aside a sum for the maintenance of his insane wife, he had left his property to his companion and his younger children in her care. But the bigots of the Brahmo Samaj were appalled. Krishnadhan was a member of their clan. He couldn’t be allowed to set up a woman of loose morals above his wife and leave his children in her care. It would reflect on them all. One of the bearded worthies of the Samaj came to visit Barin’s newly widowed Ranga Ma and condole with her on her loss. Then, in a voice dripping with honey, he said, ‘Can I have a look at the will Ma?’ The poor girl, in all innocence, handed it over to him. He was older than her father and she felt no distrust. The old man thrust the document in the pocket of his jobba and rose from his seat. ‘The will is forged,’ he declared in a voice that had changed dramatically, ‘And you’re no better than a street whore. You have no right to Krishnadhan’s property.’
On the pretext that Krishnadhan hadn’t married her, the bereaved woman was deprived of everything including the care of the children she loved. Barin was sent to his grandfather’s house in Deoghar. But he hated it there. He yearned for his Ranga Ma and she for him. From time to time she came to Deoghar and stayed in the dharmashala where Barin could visit her.
Aurobindo had only heard of her. He had never seen her. ‘Let me take you to Ranga Ma,’ Barin begged his brother. ‘She’ll be so happy to see you.’ But Aurobindo shook his head. ‘She’s your Ranga Ma Barin,’ he said patting his little brother on the head. ‘She’s nothing to me. I’m my mother’s son.’ Breaking into a laugh, he added, ‘My lunatic mother’s lunatic son.’
Chapter XXX
It was a cold frosty morning in early winter. Maharaja Radhakishor Manikya stood at the window, his eyes resting on the blue waters of the lake in which a pair of snow white swans glided about in loving dalliance. The old palace, in which his father Birchandra Manikya had lived with his many wives and concubines, had crumbled to its foundations after a severe earthquake had rocked Agartala several years ago. It had not been rebuilt. Instead, a new palace was rising at Naya Haveli. The room in which Radhakishor stood was in a much smaller, humbler abode belonging to one of his officials. This was where he resided at present while waiting for the completion of his new home.
Ever since he came to the throne Radhakishor had been beset with difficulties. There was hardly any money in the treasury. After the earthquake, his financial situation had become more critical than ever. The political front was alive with plots and conspiracies for Bara Thakur Samarendra hadn’t given up his claim to the throne. The British were also putting pressure on the young king in several ways.
These nagging worries, however, failed to cast a shadow over Radhakishor’s mood this bright winter morning. He had woken up, rested and refreshed, after a good night’s sleep and his usually jaded appetite felt sharp in the clear frosty air. Falling on his breakfast of hot kachuris, fried eggs and halwa, he ate with relish. Then, taking up the latest issue of Bharati, he proceeded to go through it with calm enjoyment. As he read, a shadow fell across the door and a servant came in with the news that Mahim Thakur stood outside waiting to see him.
‘Send him in,’ Radhakishor commanded. Mahim was a member of the family and the king didn’t stand on formality with him. Mahim came into the room in a couple of minutes. He had a large, clumsy packet wrapped in oil paper in his hands and a letter in a long slim envelope. Putting them down on the table he made his obeseiance and said, ‘These are from the poet Rabindranath Thakur?
‘For me?’ Radhakishor asked, his face glowing.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a strange coincidence. I was reading an article of his—’ Opening the packet the king found that it contained a length of white silk. He felt the texture with a puzzled frown. It was quite rough and coarse. He wondered why Rabindra Babu had sent him such a present. It was hardly fit for a king. ‘It’s not very fine silk,’ Mahim explained, ‘but it’s valuable, nevertheless. It has been woven by the silk weavers of Rajshashi. The British wield such a tight control over the silk industry that the country’s indigenous weavers are left without a means of living. Rabindra Babu feels that we should encourage them and buy their stuff even it it can’t compete in texture with Lancashire silk. He has bought up vast quantities of silk and is sending lengths of it to his friends. He says it has the touch of Mother India.’
Radhakishor touched the cloth to his forehead murmuring softly, ‘The more I hear about this young man the more I marvel at his qualities. Poets, I had thought, were self-centred creatures who sat writing all night, crouched over a lamp, with no thought for anyone or anything else. But Robi Babu is the greatest poet this country has ever seen and yet he has such a sweeping range of other interests! He’s not only a superb singer, actor, playwright, music composer and administrator—he is also a patriot of the finest order. His love of his country defies description. It knows no borders—physical, religious or cultural. For him, the entire landmass from the towering Himalayas in the north to its southern-most tip is Bharat—the Motherland. I’ve heard him say so in several speeches. Write him a letter of thanks Mahim. By the way, can’t we start a silk weaving industry in Tripura?’
‘We certainly can Maharaj. We need to get an expert to guide us.’
‘Start working on it. And send for the tailor. I wish to get a suit made out of this cloth and wear it to the Governor’s durbar … Another thing. I’d like to invite Rabindra Babu for a visit to Tripura. What do you think?’
‘It’s a good idea. I could go up to Calcutta and—
‘You’re ever eager to rush off to Calcutta. I have a better plan.
I’ll go to Calcutta myself and invite him personally. These winter months is a good time to be in the metropolis. So much goes on by way of entertainment. Jatra, theatre, circuses and magic shows. And there’s something new that is the rage these days, I hear. It’s called a moving picture. They say that people can be seen walking, laughing, dancing and riding in pictures—’
‘It’s called the bioscope Maharaj. A saheb called Stevenson has set up his instrument in Star theatre. People are flocking to it.’
‘It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard. How is it possible to see pictures moving?’
‘It’s the age of science, Maharaj. All kinds of queer things are happening. When I was in Calcutta, last August, I saw something called Electric Light in some of the mansions of the wealthy. There’s neither oil nor gas in the dome. The light comes on at the flick of a switch and burns on and on till the same switch is flicked back. The light, Maharaj, is so bright that it puts gas lamps to shame No sputtering; no flickering. As steady as the sun. And there’s no fire in the dome. I touched one and my hand wasn’t burned.’
‘Make arrangements for my visit at once Mahim. I wish to see all these things with my own eyes. Rabindra Babu’s great friend is the scientist Jagadish Bose Maybe he could explain to me how these things work.’
Mahim nodded, then handed him some letters to sign. Picking up the first one Radhakishor frowned. ‘Who drafted this letter?’ he questioned angrily.
‘The secretary did, Maharaj. I’ve read it through. There are no mistakes.’
‘I’m not talking about mistakes. This letter is addressed to Anandamohan Bosu. Is he a Bengali or isn’t he?’
‘He’s a Bengali Maharaj.’
‘Then why are we writing to him in English?’
‘Because English is the language of the courts. The barristers speak no other—’
‘They may speak English, Persian or any other language they please. It is of no consequence to me. Our national
language is Bengali and all the letters going out from our kingdom will be in it. If the great Babus of Calcutta can’t read our letters let them hire people who can. Go, get the letter redrafted in Bengali.’ Then just as Mahim turned to leave the room, he said: ‘Wait, do you remember a man called Shashibushan Singha? He was our tutor during my father’s reign. A very learned man with immense knowledge of both languages—English and Bengali. We need people like that in our kingdom.’
‘I remember him Maharaj. I’ve met him once or twice in Calcutta.
‘Can he be persuaded to return to Tripura?’
‘I doubt it. I asked him several times but he refused. He has developed a great hatred for the royals of Tripura.’
‘Why? There must be some reason. Do you know what it is?’ ‘I do …’ Mahim hesitated. ‘It’s a bit … a bit awkward.’ Radhakishor rose to his feet and walked towards Mahim. Then, putting a hand on his shoulder, he said, ‘Don’t be afraid to talk to me. I’m not averse to hearing the truth.’ Still Mahim hesitated. ‘Has Master Moshai accused me of anything?’ Radhakishor probed gently. ‘I can’t think why. I’ve never opposed him in any matter or shown any discourtesy.’
‘Shashi Babu believes that you had a hand in the killing of Bharat.’
‘Who is Bharat?’ The blood drained away from Radhakishor’s face.
‘He was a brother of yours. Your father’s son by a kachhua. He was a meritorious scholar and a great favourite of Shashi Babu’s.’
‘Ah! Yes. I remember now. He used to live in Radharaman Babu’s house. Hai! Hai! So Master Moshai believes I ordered the killing! Does he not know my nature? I faint at the sight of blood. I can’t even kill a bird. Besides why would I want to kill Bharat? He posed no threat to me.’
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