Nabin was well aware that whenever his brother had cause to be angry, he had to find someone to punish. If the guilty managed to escape even an innocent person would do, otherwise his idea of discipline could not be maintained and the prestige of his state would be undermined.
Madhusudan said, ‘Do you think I am unaware of the reason for this insane behaviour on the part of Borrobou?’
Nabin dared not ask what madness he was referring to, in case his not knowing got counted as an offence.
Madhusudan went on, ‘I have no doubt that your wife is putting ideas into her head and spoiling her.’
With the utmost hesitation Nabin tried to stammer, ‘No, but Mejobou . . .’
‘But I have seen it myself.’
His had to be the last word.The eyewitness account no doubt included the episode of the glass paperweight.
28
NABIN KNEW THAT HIS WIFE’S SINCERE AFFECTION FOR THE NEW BRIDE would not go down well with the rest of the household. There was bound to be tale-carrying of all sorts. He thought something of the kind must have happened. It was no use protesting against Madhusudan’s allegations; that would only make him more stubborn. He felt a bit confused about the current situation, for his elder brother had not made it clear as to what really had gone wrong, and what was to be done also remained vague. The only thing that was clear was that the entire responsibility of his anger and displeasure went to Motir-ma. And as the relative importance of a couple demanded, the greater share would be his.
Nabin went and told Motir-ma, ‘There is trouble ahead.’
‘Why, what is it?’
‘God only knows—and Dada. Perhaps you also do. But the pressure is on me.
‘But why?’
‘There is pressure on me so that I may correct you before you commit any more follies, and do the same to his new acquisition from his latest deal.’
‘All right, so you start with me, let us see if you are better at it than your brother,’ said Motir-ma.
Nabin was distressed. ‘You remember the time Dada’s Oriya servant broke a plate from his expensive dinner set, how I had to pay most of the fine, because it was supposed to be in my charge? But should his new treasure be also my charge? Anyway, Dada is of the opinion that the compensation for her actions or mistakes has to be shared by you and me. Do something about it, don’t torture me, Mejobou!’
‘What could be the fine?’
‘Sending us back to Rajabpur. That is what he threatens us with often.’
‘That is because you get bullied. Remember, he did send us out once, but had to send across the train fare to bring us back. Even when he is angry, your brother knows his accounts well. He knows it would cost him dear to run this household without me. And he cannot bear to lose a pie anyhow.’
‘So what should I do now?’
‘Tell your brother that he may be a big Raja, but he cannot win back his Rani with the help of a paid maidservant. The weight of her huge sulk has to be borne by him and by no one else. Ask him not to hire a porter to carry the burden of his honeymoon.’
‘Mejobou, he does not need my advice. He will come to his senses on his own. In the meantime you do your job of a go-between, whatever comes of it. At least we will prove to him that we are not ungrateful parasites.’
Motir-ma went to look for Kumu. She knew she was likely to be on the terrace in the mornings. High walls with a few bay-windows covered the terrace. A few empty pots were strewn around. In one corner was a square cage with wire-netting, the wooden bottom rotting. Sometime in the past it used to house rabbits and pigeons, but its only use now was to sun-dry pickles and preserves which had to be protected from the sneaking crows. You got a glimpse of the sky overhead but not of the horizon. On the western sky one could see the chimney-stack of an ironworks factory. Kumu sat here often for the last two days. The only sight was that of the smoke curling up, as if it was the only living thing in the whole sky, swelling and swirling upwards, driven by some strange impulse.
Kumu had finished cleaning the lamps, had her bath and come up here. She sat facing the eastern sky, her wet hair streaming down her back. She was most plainly dressed in a narrow black-bordered thick cotton sari. For warmth she had only a wrap of rough raw silk.
For sometime now this young woman had nursed the longing in her heart by installing in her mind an ideal image of the beloved to be. All her prayers, her rituals and myths were to keep this image alive. In the Brindaban of her mind she was Radha waiting for a tryst with Krishna. She used to sing early in the morning in Raga Ramkeli,
‘Hamarey tumharey sampriti lagi hai
Suno Manmohan pyarey.’
(Listen, O my beloved, we are in love with each other!)
It was as if, the one on whom she had bestowed all her offerings had been sending her a daily inkling of her beloved-to-be long before his appearance. On a rainy night when the leaves of the trees in the garden were in a tumult because of the incessant impact of the raindrops, she remembered the song in Raga Kanara:
‘Bajey jhananana payeriya
Kaise karo jaun gharoyarey.’
(How shall I come home to you? My anklets are making such a din.)
The anklets round her own pensive mind were tinkling away, she was out on an unknown assignment, wondering how should she ever go back home! Long before she saw Him, she heard His melody. If someone came close to her on days when she was filled with deep joy and sorrow, all her music would have found a form. But no traveller ever stopped her way. In the secret garden of her imagination, she was all alone. That was why all these days, the flowers she offered at the feet of her little dark god, Shyamsundar, were really meant for her unknown beloved. So when the matchmaker arrived, she asked her god, ‘Shall I have you now?’ The answer came in that flower—the blue morning glory—which slipped into her hand from the feet of the idol.
But now it seemed as if all the preparations in her mind over all these years had come to nought. Her boat had struck a hard rock and sank in a moment. Her aching youth was today looking for an object for her offerings, now too heavy to bear. The recurrent refrain in her heart was:
‘Merey to Giridhar Gopal dusara na koi.’
But today her song drifted into a void, reaching nowhere. This emptiness frightened her. Would the deep yearning within her end like that spiral of smoke, lonely till the end of her days?
Motir-ma sat behind her, at a distance. She was astonished at the dignity of this beautiful girl unadorned. She wondered how this girl would ever fit into this kind of household. The women of this house seemed to belong to a different class altogether. Naturally, they felt alienated from her, angry at her—but did not dare to make friends with her.
As she sat there, Motir-ma saw Kumu suddenly hide her face in her sari and break into a sob. She could not but come up to her, put her arms round her and say, ‘My sweet sister, please tell me what is wrong?’
After a long silence, she replied, ‘No letter from Dada even today. I wonder what is wrong with him.’
‘Is it time for a letter from him?’
‘Of course. I left him ill and he knows well how I shall fret for his news.’
‘Do not worry. I shall find a way of getting his news.’
Kumu had thought of sending a wire, but who would do it for her? From the time Madhusudan called himself her brother’s creditor, she could not bring herself to utter her brother’s name in his presence. Today she asked Motir-ma, ‘I shall be greatly relieved if you send a telegram to my brother, from me.’
‘Of course I will do it. There is nothing to fear.’
‘But you know, I have not a single rupee with me.’
‘What nonsense. I shall take the money from my household budget. All that money belongs to you. I am now in your employ.’
Kumu protested strongly, ‘No no! not a single pie in this house belongs to me.’
‘All right, I may not spend for you. But surely I can spend some money on my own? Why are you silent? Is there anythin
g wrong with it? If I had flaunted this offer, you could have refused with pride, but when I give this with love why can’t you accept it lovingly?’
‘I do,’ responded Kumu.
Motir-ma then asked, ‘Will your bedroom be without you tonight also?’
‘I have no place there.’
Motir-ma did not insist. It was not for her to do so. Let the one who must, do it. She only asked gently, ‘May I get you some milk?’
‘Not now. A little later.’ She still had to have it out with her deity. She was yet to get a signal from within herself.
Motir-ma went back to her own room and asked Nabin, ‘Can you do something? Go to your brother’s office and see if there is any letter for her lying on his table. Try the drawers as well.’
‘That would be calamitous,’ Nabin said.
‘If you can’t, I shall go myself.’
‘It is like looking for a bear cub in its den!’
‘The boss is in his office. He won’t be back before one. In the meantime . . .’
‘Look Mejobou, it is impossible for me to do this job in broad daylight. I may only be able to get you some news tonight.’
‘All right, that will have to do, but you must send a wire right away and find out how Bipradas Babu is.’
‘Fine, but shouldn’t Dada be told?’
‘No.’
‘You seem to be desperate. You know in this house even a lizard can’t catch a fly without his permission, and you expect me to . . .?’
‘It will be from Didi, how are you involved?’
‘But it will pass through my hands.’
‘Many telegrams are sent daily from his office by hand of the messenger, put this one in among the lot. Here is the money. Didi gave it.’
Nabin would never have agreed to do this daring deed had he not already felt pity for Kumu in his heart.
29
AS A ROUTINE, MADHUSUDAN USED TO COME INTO THE HOUSE FOR HIS lunch at one, and as a routine, the women fluttered round him, some serving food, others fanning him and whisking away flies. I have already described how the arrangements within his household lacked any show of wealth. His food habits continued to be the same as always—he had taste for rice alone, not of fine quality but good enough to fill his stomach. The utensils laid on the table were expensive. The plates, cups and glasses—all were made of silver. Usually the menu consisted of plain dal, fish curry, a sour and sweet tamarind dish and greens with fishbone. Madhusudan ended his meal by drinking to the last drop a big bowl of sugared milk. Finally he would put a betel-leaf in his mouth and a couple of them in a case. He then pulled at the hookah for about a quarter of an hour and went back to work. From the time when he was relatively poor until today, there was no exception to this routine. He had a good appetite for food but no greed.
Shyamasundari was stirring sugar in the milk. Not too dark, she could not be called fat, but the fullness of her body did make a statement. She was always clad only in a plain white sari, and she always looked neat. She was nearing the end of youth, more like a late summer afternoon when the end of the day is drawing near yet the shadow of dusk has not fallen. Her dark eyes under thick arched eyebrows did not look straight at anyone, but took in a lot with a sidelong glance. Her full and ripe lips seemed to have more to say than she cared to. Life had not given her much to savour, yet she seemed to be fulfilled. She knew her worth, she was not mean, but she had a proud disdain of her environs because she felt her value was wasted therein. She had come to this family at the rising tide of Madhusudan’s wealth. She had ambitions to be at the top by the power of her youth. One cannot say for certain that Madhusudan was not tempted. But he never surrendered because he was not merely worldly wise but also a genius at it. This talent helped him create his vast wealth in which he was deeply immersed and which gave him great pleasure. His rare instinct warned him that a powerful obstacle had been placed against his goal of amassing wealth, just as how in mythology, Indra the lord of the gods had sent temptresses to distract anyone who threatened to be as powerful by virtue of practising a rigorous asceticism. So, every time such temptation came Madhusudan’s way, he had managed to check himself. It was also easy to do so because in the high noon of his business he had no leisure to stray. The occasional glimpse, the casual words he had from Shyama were enough to give him relief in the midst of this hard toil. On occasions of festivals and fairs his partiality towards Shyamasundari was evident. But he never indulged her to the extent that she could afford to be arrogant within the household. Shyama was well aware of his weakness, but could not cast off her fear of the man.
She was always present at his meals, today was no exception. She had just come out of her bath wearing a spotless white sari, one end of which was lightly draped over her incredibly black, long and thick hair spread over her back. A mild fragrance of her shampoo wafted from her wet hair.
She did not look up from the milk bowl she was stirring, but asked softly, ‘Thakurpo, shall I send for her?’
Madhusudan looked at his sister-in-law gravely without a word. The frightened Shyama hastened to explain, ‘It is good for her to be present at your mealtime. She can wait on you . . .’
She left her sentence unfinished as she could not make out anything from his expression. He bent his head down and resumed eating. After a little while he asked, without lifting his head, ‘Where is she now?’
Shyamasundari quickly responded, ‘Let me go and look for her.’
Madhusudan frowned and put up his finger, bidding her not to. He did not want to hear from her the answer he feared most, yet he was very curious. He went up to his bedroom at the end of the meal, with a faint hope in his heart. He even made a round of the terrace. He went into the bathroom and stood still for a while. Then he came back to the bedroom and stretched out on his bed, puffing at the hookah. The routine fifteen minutes went by, twenty minutes passed and at the end of thirty minutes he pulled out his watch and looked at the time. Year in and year out he had never been late in going back to the office even by five minutes. There was an attendance register in his office in which everyone had to record the time of their arrival and departure. Their wages moved up and down according to those records. Of all the employees his had the least deductions. He made no distinction between himself and the others in this matter. In fact, he fined himself at double the rate for others. Today he made up his mind to make up for it, by working overtime. But as the day wore on, he felt less and less like working. Eventually, he came back half an hour earlier than usual, leaving his work unfinished. All the time that he was in the office, he had felt like paying a surprise visit to the bedroom. Maybe someone would be there. He never entered his bedroom in daylight, but today he came inside the house in his office clothes.
Motir-ma was on the terrace, picking up the pieces of mango spread out in the sun for drying. Seeing him enter the bedroom at this unusual hour, she pulled her sari over her head and smiled to herself. Madhusudan was annoyed and ashamed at the same time, at being caught by her, playing truant. His plan was to enter the room very silently, so that the startled deer which might be in the room did not run away. But that plan failed. So he quickly got in just to avoid any more curious eyes. He felt his slipping away from the office had misfired totally. Not only was there nobody in the room, but there was no evidence that anyone ever stepped into the room anytime, even for a short while. He could hold his patience no longer. As the elder brother-in-law he was not supposed to talk to Motir-ma directly. Nor had he ever done it, but today he was dying to call her and ask her about Kumu. Once he even went out to look for her but she had left by then.
In order to save himself from the ignominy of being in his bedroom, abandoned by his new bride, at this odd hour all by himself, he stalked out of the room quickly. In his office room, he leaned over his desk intently, pretending to do some very important work. He opened the first register he saw lying about. Normally he never looked at it, his head clerk did. But to keep up his pretence in front of others he
opened it. This register kept record of all letters and telegrams that were sent out with their dates and times. The first entry was a telegram addressed to Bipradas. The sender was the mistress of the house herself.
‘Call the darwan!’ shouted Madhusudan.
The messenger came.
‘Who sent you to despatch this telegram?’
‘Mejobabu, sir.’
‘Call him.’
Nabin arrived, pale in the face.
‘Who ordered this telegram to be sent, without my permission?’ It was not easy to name the one who did it, in front of the master disciplinarian. At a loss to answer, Nabin started sweating even on that winter afternoon.
Nabin’s silence provoked Madhusudan to ask, ‘Was it Mejobou?’
The answer was clear from the way Nabin hung his head in silence. Blood rushed to Madhusudan’s head and he was red in the face. He was so angry that he could not bring himself to speak. He dismissed Nabin from the room with a vigorous movement of the hand, and began to pace up and down from one end of the room to the other.
30
A CRESTFALLEN NABIN CAME AND TOLD MOTIR-MA, ‘THAT’S IT, MEJOBOU. Start packing.’
‘Why? What’s up?’
‘Now you may put by all the stuff in the trunks.’
‘If I do as you say, I may have to unpack them again the next day. Is your boss in a temper?’
‘I know him well. This time it is our home here that seems to be in danger.’
‘So what? Let’s go. We won’t be stranded wherever we have to move.’
‘Who is asking me to go? The order is likely to be “Send Mejobou packing home”.’
‘I know you can’t follow such an order,’ said Motir-ma.
‘How do you know I can’t?’
‘Don’t think it’s me alone; the whole house knows you to be a uxorious man. Till today your elder brother wondered how a man can become a slave to his wife. Now the time has come for him to find out how.’
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 61
