‘Where are you, my prince? Where are your sparkling jewels? Come and save my brothers. I shall be your slave for life.’
The more she blamed herself for the misfortunes of her family the more she poured out her heart full of love to her brothers—a love wrung out of deep unhappiness. The brothers also, conscious of their inability to do their duty by Kumu, enveloped her in their affection. They were ever eager to compensate this orphan girl for what the gods had deprived her of. She was like a bit of moonlight cheering the darkness of their poverty. Sometimes when she blamed herself as the vehicle of misfortune, Bipradas would smile and say, ‘But Kumu, you yourself are our fortune—there would be no light in this house but for you.’
Kumudini had her education at home, hardly aware of the world outside. She lived in the twilight zone between the old and the new. Her world was dimly lit, ruled by obscure goddessess like Siddheswari, Gandheswari, and Ghentu, a world where one must not look at the moon on certain days, where the evil eye of an eclipse had to be dismissed with conch-blowing, where you would be rid of the dread of snakes if you sipped milk on the holy day of ambubachi. It was a world where one dealt with good and evil by incantations, by promising a sacrificial goat or a simpler propitiation with betel nuts, raw rice and a five-pice measure of shirni, or by wearing amulets of all descriptions. A hope of averting ill luck through propitiation; a hope dashed a thousand times. One often sees for oneself that the branch of auspicious timings does not necessarily bear the fruit of good fortune.Yet reality has no power to dispel by reasoning, the illusions created in dreams. In this dreamland there was no place for logic, there was only the observance of rules and taboos. Perhaps it is this total rejection of the harmony of reason, of the supremacy of intellect and the universality of ethics in this world of fatality, which cast a pall of pathos over her face. Because she knew she had been sentenced without cause, for the last eight years she had accepted this humiliation as her wont. It had something to do with the death of her father.
4
THE OLD IS WELL ENTRENCHED IN THE FORTRESS OF WEALTHY FAMILIES. THE new has to cross many halls and courtyards to gain entrance. The inmates take ages to arrive at the new times. Bipradas’s father too could not catch up with the changing times.
Tall, fair, with a shock of hair, his large and long eyes reflected unchallenged authority. His booming voice struck terror into the hearts of his followers and retainers. He was strong, used to wrestling with the pros regularly, yet his delicate physique did not bear any sign of toil. Dressed in a well laundered muslin kurta over the flowing folds of a farashdanga or a dacca dhoti, the master’s arrival was heralded by the scent of Istambul attar in the air. The khansama followed with a golden paan box, and a liveried orderly was always at the door. At the main entrance, the old jamadar was busy combing his long beard into two plaits and tying them behind his ears after finishing the chore of blending the tobacco and crushing the bhang leaves. Darwans, the next in rank, were on guard with their swords. The walls of the guardroom displayed many types of shields, scimitars and very old muskets and spears.
In the drawing room, Mukundalal sat on the floor on a mattress with a bolster at his back. The courtiers sat a step below in two rows on either side.
The hookah servers were well versed in their relative ranks, and the kind of hookah to be offered befitting the rank—gilded or plain or a simple hubble-bubble. The master had a huge one filled with rosewater.
In another part of the mansion there was a western-type drawing room filled with eighteenth-century English furniture. A huge mirror, slightly pitted, faced the entrance. Two winged fairies held aloft two candlesticks on either side of its gilt-edged frame. On a table underneath was a clock in blackstone, decorated in gold, and a few English glass dolls. The straight-backed chairs, the sofas and the chandelier hanging from the beam were all draped in holland cloth. The walls carried oil paintings of the ancestors and of some British civil servants who were patrons of the family. The entire room was carpeted with English carpets embroidered with large flowers in vivid colours. This room was unveiled only on special occasions when the officials of the district were invited. This, the only modern room in this house, appeared to be cut off from daily living. Old and haunted, a stifling mustiness of disuse hung about it.
Mukundalal’s luxury was an essential part of the mores of the day. The abandon of spending was a proud measure of true wealth. In other words, their wealth was not a burden but a slave grovelling under their feet. The display of their charities in public or their indulgence in private were both on a grand scale. They were as impatient in dealing with insolence as they were generous with their dependants. Once a nouveau riche neighbour merely boxed the ears of their gardener’s son for a rather grave offence. The money that was spent on teaching this rich neighbour a lesson, was more than what one would spend on seeing a son through the University. Nor was the gardener’s boy spared. He was caned mercilessly. The degree of chastisement matched the height of anger: but it did the boy good. He won scholarships and is currently established as a mukhtiyar.
In the tradition of the rich of those days, Mukundalal’s life also ran in two compartments. One was devoted to serious duties to the family and the other to merrymaking with friends. If one could be said to be the home of ten sacred rites then the other could be the home of eleven profanities.
The inner compartment housed the family deity and the housewife. Here pleasing gods and guests, observing festivals, fasts and feasts, feeding the poor and the brahmins, neighbours and priests filled the space all the year round. Right outside was the world of nabobs, the splendour of courtly pleasures, women on the fringe of society came and went. The rich of those times sought their company as a way of cultivating courtly manners. The wives had a difficult time caught between the pull of two planets in opposing orbits.
Nandarani, Mukundalal’s wife, had her pride. She could not quite get used to accepting the way things were. There was a reason for it. She was sure that her husband was anchored to her, however far his fancy might roam. So her tolerance broke down whenever he hurt his own love. And that is exactly what happened.
5
RASLILA WAS A TIME OF GREAT FESTIVITY. PLAYS DEPICTING THE LIFE OF LORD Krishna were staged on the open courtyard: some evenings were devoted to kirtans sung in praise of the young god. This was where the neighbours and the women of the house crowded. Usually the more profane entertainments were held in the outer court. The women, anguished and sleepless, could only get a glimpse of the goings on, through cracks in the door. This year the men decided to have dancing girls perform on a boat on the river.
With no way of knowing what was happening out there, Nandarani’s heart was bleeding in the dark. One had to carry on the daily chores at home, looking after and feeding the household with a smiling face. But no one knew how the heart ached, how one was being stifled inside. Outside, the grateful subjects sang loudly the praise of their Rani-Ma.
The festivities were over at last. The house was now empty. Only the crows and the dogs were left raucously bickering over the torn banana leaves and broken shards of pots. The lampmen took down the chandeliers and dismantled the marquee. The neighbourhood children fought over the broken bits of the chandelier and the floral hangings made out of pith. Occasionally in that crowd, bursts of slapping and screaming shot out like rockets rending the sky. The breeze from the courtyard was sour with the smell of leftover foodstuff, overcast with a sense of fatigue, weariness and gloom. This emptiness became unbearable for Nandarani when Mukundalal failed to come home. Because there was no way of getting at him, her patience was at its end.
She called the dewan and spoke to him from behind the curtains, ‘Please tell your master that I have to go immediately to Brindaban where my mother is unwell.’
Dewanjee stroked his bald pate and said softly, ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to meet the master before you went? News has reached me that he is due home any time.’
‘No, I cannot wait,’
was her answer.
She had also heard of his impending return. Hence the haste.
She knew for certain that a little persuasion and some tears would settle everything. It had always been so. A proper punishment was thus adjourned forever. But she did not want the same to happen this time as well. So the judge had to flee as soon as the sentence was awarded. It was a wrench. She threw herself on her bed and cried her heart out, just before leaving. But it did not stop her from embarking on the journey.
It was two in the afternoon at the end of the rains. The air was hot under the blazing sun. Amidst the murmur of the litte trees lined on the roadside one could hear occasionally the voice of a koel crying itself hoarse. The road which her palanquin took, offered a view of the river beyond the green fields of paddy. Nandarani could not help sliding the door open a little and looking outside. She could make out a large boat lying at anchor on the other bank of the river, flying a pennant atop the mast. Even at that distance the familiar outline of Goopi, their old runner, met her eyes as did the flash of sunlight on his badge. She banged the door close, as her heart froze inside her.
6
MUKUNDALAL LANDED AT HIS JETTY LIKE A SHIP BATTERED IN A STORM WITH broken masts and torn sails: his heart heavy with the weight of guilt. The memory of the revelry was as distasteful as the leftovers of a heavy repast. If the promoters and organizers of the revelry were present he would have whipped them. He had resolved not to let this happen ever again. Looking at his dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes and drained face, no one dared tell him about the mistress’s departure. Mukundalal entered the house in trepidation: rehearsing to himself, ‘Please dear wife, forgive me. This will never happen again.’ He paused for a moment before his bedroom door and then tiptoed in. He was sure in his mind that she was in bed, sulking. He had decided to fall straight at her feet, but he found the room empty, His heart sank. If he had found her in bed he could be sure that she was halfway down the road to forgiveness. But as she was not in, he knew that expiation would be hard and long. It might have to wait till tonight or even longer. He had made up his mind to accept the punishment in full and not to eat or drink till he had earned her pardon. No devoted wife could bear to see the husband without bath or food till a late hour. He came out of the bedroom and found the maid Pyaree standing in a corner with her head veiled in her sari. He asked her, ‘Where is your mistress?’
She answered, ‘She left for Brindaban day before yesterday to see her mother.’
He did not quite get the sense and asked in a choked voice, ‘Where did you say she went?’
‘To Brindaban. Mother’s illness.’
Mukundalal gripped the railing of the veranda once and then ran to the drawing room outside, to sit there all by himself. No one dared come near him.
Dewanjee came and said timidly, ‘Shall we send someone to fetch the mistress?’
He did not utter a word; simply moved his finger to say ‘no’.
When the dewan left, he sent for Radhu the khansama and ordered him to bring some brandy.
The whole household was stunned. When an earthquake rears its ugly head from deep within the earth it is useless to try and suppress it. It was somewhat like that.
He lived on neat brandy for days on end with hardly any food. Such abuse of an already ravaged body led to delirium and spitting of blood.
Doctors arrived from Kolkata and treated him with ice-packs.
Mukundalal would flare up at the sight of anyone. He suspected that the entire household was plotting against him. Perhaps he was nursing a secret grievance against the family which let his wife leave the house.
The only one who could approach him was Kumudini. She sat by his bedside and he stared at her trying to find something of her mother in her. Sometimes he would pull her head down on his chest and lie quietly with his eyes closed, tears rolling down the corners of his eyes. Never did he ask about her mother. Meanwhile a telegram was sent to the mistress of the house and she was due to arrive the next day. But it was rumoured that there was a break in the rail track somewhere on the way.
7
IT WAS THE THIRD PHASE OF THE MOON; THERE WAS A STORM IN THE EVENING.
The branches of the trees in the garden crackled and broke. From time to time there was an angry, impatient splash of rain.The corrugated roof of the shed erected for feeding people was blown into the pond. The wind lashed the sky like the tail of a wounded tiger groaning angrily. Suddenly a gust of wind rattled the doors and windows. Mukundalal gripped Kumudini’s hand and said, ‘There is nothing to fear, Kumu. You have done no wrong. Listen to them grinding their teeth. They are out to get me.’
Kumudini, gently pressing the ice-bag on his head, said, ‘No, Father; why should anyone be after you? It is just the storm outside. It will be over soon.’ Mukunda continued in his delirium, ‘Brindaban? Brindaban. Chandra Chakrabarty, the priest in my father’s time, He is dead and gone—a ghost now in Brindaban. Did someone say he is coming?’
‘Please do not talk. Try to sleep a little, Father,’ said Kumu.
‘Out there someone is warning somebody. Beware. Beware!’
‘That’s nothing, Father. The wind is shaking the trees.’
‘Why is she so angry with me? Have I been so amiss? Do tell me Kumu?’
‘You have done no wrong, Father. Please try and sleep a little.’
‘Remember Madhu Adhikari? Used to act in plays as Bindey the go-between for Radha and Krishna.’
And he began to hum Radha’s lines.
‘Michhey karo keno nindey
Ogo Bindey Sri Gobindey’
(O Bindey why do you blame my Krishna, for nothing?)
‘Kaar baanshi oi bajey Brindabaney
Soi lo soi
Gharey ami roibo kemoney?’
(Who is that playing the flute in Brindaban?
Tell me my friend, how can I stay indoors?)
‘Radhu, get me my glass of brandy.’
‘What are you saying, Father?’ Kumudini asked, leaning close to his face.
Mukundalal opened his eyes, bit his tongue in shame and fell silent. Even when his senses were in disarray, he did not forget that he didn’t ever drink in presence of Kumudini. A little later he started humming again:
‘I’ve got to snatch his wretched flute away
Or I have to leave Brindaban . . .’
These rambling tunes broke Kumu’s heart. She was upset with her mother and laid her head on her father’s feet, as if seeking forgiveness on her mother’s behalf.
Suddenly, Mukundalal shouted ‘Dewanjee!’ and when the dewan came, told him ‘Can’t you hear the stamping of their sticks?’
‘It’s only the wind hitting the door,’ said Dewanjee.
‘No , the old man Brindabanchandra has come with his bald pate, stick in hand and a silk scarf on his shoulder. He is going on stomping. Is it his stick or his clogs?’
All this time there was a respite from the vomitting of blood; but it started again around three in the morning. Mukundalal felt about the bed and said indistinctly ‘Borrobou, the room is dark. Isn’t it time you lit the lamps?’ This was the first time he had addressed his wife, after his return from the boat—and the last.
Nandarani fainted at the doorstep when she came back from Brindaban. They picked her up and put her to bed. She lost all interest in her household. Her tears dried up and even the children brought her no solace. The family guru recited many slokas from the holy books but she didn’t even look at him. She would not take off her iron bangles, as was the custom for widows to do. Because, she claimed, ‘I was told by our palmist that I shall never face widowhood. This has to be true.’
Kshema, a distant relation, pleaded with tears in her eyes, ‘Whatever had to happen has happened. Now you should take a look at your household. Remember the last words of the karta—Borrobou won’t you light the lamps?’
Nandarani sat up on her bed, and with a faraway look said, ‘Sure I will light the lamps. This time there will be no delay o
n my part.’ As she said this her pale face suddenly lit up as if she had just started on her journey with a lamp in her hand.
The sun had started on its journey northwards. It was nearly full moon on that Magh night. Nandarani dressed herself in a red bridal saree, put a big dot of sindur on her forehead and with a smile on her face, passed away without ever looking at her household.
8
AFTER HIS FATHER’S DEATH BIPRADAS DISCOVERED THAT THE GIANT TREE that had given them shelter so far was rotting at the roots.All their properties were slowly sinking in the quicksand of debt. There was no option but to curtail their scale of social commitments and their own lifestyle. The issue of Kumu’s marriage also raised many questions which he avoided answering. In the end the Chatterjees had to give up the Noornagar mansions and move to a rented house in the Bagbazar area of Kolkata.
In her old house Kumudini’s world had been vibrant with life all around—trees and flowers, the cowshed, the puja room, paddyfields and of course, people. There, she had picked flowers to fill her basket, relished the forbidden green plums with salt, mustard and coriander leaves, plucked sour chaalta and gathered green mangoes felled by summer storms in the months of Boishakh and Jaistha. Her favourite spot was the walled pond at the back of the house, framed in green moss and enveloped in dark, comforting shadows. She had swum here every day, plucked lotus stalks, knitted or just sat on the steps all by herself, lost in thought.
The festivities of men were tied with those of Nature, with the change of seasons, month after month—from AkshayTritiya to Doljatra, to Basanti Puja, so many of them. Man and Nature together had made the whole year into a work of art.
Not that all was happy and pleasant. There was a fair amount of silent envy, or screaming accusations, whispered gossip and expressed denouncement—all over the share of fish or on taking sides in children’s quarrels. Worst of all was the undertone of anxiety in the midst of the daily chores, about the troubles that could brew from the whims of the master in his quarters. If something untoward happened it would go on for days on end disturbing everyone’s peace—Kumudini would be at the mercy of a trembling heart, her mother would be crying silently in her room and the boys would be going about with long faces. This household was always disturbed by these swings between joy and sorrow, between spells of good and bad luck.
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 54
