Kumu said nothing. She rested her head on his feet. Then she stood near the window looking out into the light. She said after a while, ‘Let me go and get your tea and toast.’
Madhusudan had called the astrologer who fixed any time after ten that day as auspicious. At the appointed hour, a covered palanquin with red velveteen and gold embroidered interior arrived, escorted by men with pikestaffs, and carried Kumu to the palace in Mirzapur where an orchestra was playing and Brahmins were being fed with great éclat.
Manik brought a glass of barley water for Bipradas who was not in his bed today, but sat still on a chair by the window. He did not even notice the barley water. The servant went back. Then Kshema auntie came with his food. She put her hand on his shoulder and gently reminded him, ‘Bipu dear, it is getting late.’
He slowly got up and lay down on his bed. Kshema very much wished to describe to him at length the great fanfare with which Kumu was taken back to her husband’s house, but she could not say anything in the face of his grave silence. It seemed he was looking into a yawning abyss.
When Bipradas spoke out, ‘Pishi, please send Kalu to me,’ those simple words seemed to come through a thick pall of silence. Pishi shuddered.
Bipradas gave Kalu a letter. It was Subodh’s letter from England. He wrote to say that if he returned to India now without finishing the quota of bar dinners then he would have to come back to England again. It would be more convenient if he returned after the last bar dinner towards the end of winter. That would also save some expense. He believed the property matters could well wait till then.
Kalu did not wish to bother Bipradas with mundane crises, today of all days. He said, ‘Dada, there has been no talk as yet about the return of the loan. If we keep quiet for some time and don’t provoke anyone, maybe there will be no trouble. Anyway, you shouldn’t worry.’
Bipradas said, ‘I have no worries, Kalu. Not in the least.’
Kalu did not like him to worry, but such total indifference caused him more concern.
Bipradas picked up the newspaper and started reading. Kalu took it as a hint that Bipradas had not the slightest desire to discuss the matter. Usually Kalu left as soon as business was over, but today he sat quietly for some more time, wishing to raise some other topic or be of some use in some way.
He asked, ‘Shall I close the front window? The sun is streaming through.’
Bipradas shook his head to indicate that there was no need for him to do anything.
Still Kalu continued to sit. The emptiness of the room without Kumu by the side of her brother made his heart sink. He suddenly heard Tom the terrier sobbing under the bed. The dog had seen Kumu leave, felt that something amiss had happened, but he was unable to communicate what he felt.
Notes and Glossary
The Bengali Calendar:
The Bengali New Year starts with Boishakh, around15 th April. The Bengali calendar starts from around 593 AD. So 1900 is Bengali San 1307 and year 2000 is BS 1407.
Summer: Boishakh (mid-April to mid-May)
Jaistha (May-June)
Rains: Ashadh (June-July)
Shraban (July-August)
Early Autumn: Bhadra (August-September)
Ashwin (September-October)
Late Autumn: Kartik (October-November)
Aghran (November-December)
Winter:Poush (December-January)
Magh (January-February)
Spring: Falgun (February-March)
Chaitra (March-April)
Bengali Kinship Terms:
Bengali families, being mostly joint families, abound in uncles, aunts, sons, daughters, cousins, their wives and so on, necessitating extra-specific kinship terms to indicate the exact relationship in the hierarchy of the extended family, rather than do with generalized terms like uncles, aunts and cousins. Some of those used in this translation are explained:
Grandparents Paternal Relations
Thakurda Father’s father Jyatha Father’s elder brother
Thakurma Father’s mother (from Sanskrit Jyeshtha—elder)
Dadu Mother’s father Kaka, Khuro Father’s younger brother
Didima Mother’s mother Kakima, Khurrima His wife
Pishima Father’s sister
Pisha-moshai Her husband
Maternal relations: Same generation:
Mama Mother’s brother Dada Elder brother (short suffix-da)
Mamima His wife Didi Elder sister (short sufix-di)
Mashima Mother’s sister Khoka A young boy
Mesho-moshai Her husband Khuki A young girl
Relations by marriage:
Bhashur Husband’s elder brother—never to be addressed directly
Deor Husband’s younger brother, addresed as Thakurpo
Nanad Husband’s sister
Nandai Her husband
Bhaaj Brother’s wife—to a sister
Boudi Elder brother’s wife—to a brother
Bou Wife, any married woman in the family
Bou-ma Form of address for a married woman in the family by any elder member
Prefixes like Borro, Sejo, Mejo and Chhoto (eldest, next to the eldest, middle one and the youngest respectively) are added to indicate relative positions age-wise. All the above terms and addresses are also used socially amongst non-relatives alike. Short suffixes like—da (from Dada), or—di (from Didi) are added as appropriate.
Most of the Indian words used are now familiar in Indo-English writing. Many have even found acceptance in the new OED.
Ashram
A kind of residential school in a forest where a sage teaches young boys the scriptures and other arts and skills for over a decade in preparation of their role as householder.
Adda
A distinctive cultural feature of life in Kolkata. It means an idle gossip, or bull session amongst peer groups—students, unemployed youth or retired elderly people—any time, anywhere, discussing kings and cabbages.
Badshah
An imperial and imperious personality. From Badshah, Persian for Emperor.
Bhajan
A popular devotional song.
Dewan
Estate manager.
Esraj
A many-stringed instrument played with a bow.
Hookah
A portable hubble-bubble for smoking tobacco which is lit on top in a clay pot and puffed through water contained in an empty coconut shell.
Karta
The head of a joint family.
Khansama
A man-servant waiting at the table.
Kirtan
A devotional song wherein the audience also takes part in the refrain.
Kuleen
The highest pedigreed among the Brahmins.
Mukhtiyar
A local lawyer in a lower court—as opposed to a Law Graduate.
Naib
A functionary in the zamindar’s office, a bailiff.
Paan
Betel-leaf, commonly chewed, with lime and spices.
Roti
Indian unleavened bread.
Ryot
A tiller tennant.
Sindoor
Vermillion. Used for applying a dot in the forehead and in the parting of hair, by Hindu married women.
Zamindar
A rich landlord.
MALANCHA
(The Garden)
1
NEERJA LAY HALF-RECLINED ON HER SICK BED, PROPPED UP AGAINST PILLOWS that were piled high behind her. A white silk sheet covered her legs, like the pale moonlight on the third day of the waxing moon when it is behind a light cloud. She was pale like the conch-shell, her bangles hung loose on her wrists, blue veins lined her thin arms and on her dense eyelashes were the stains of a long-drawn illness.
Quite like its occupant, Neerja’s room too seemed to be under a shadow. A picture of Ramakrishna Paramhansa adorned one wall of the marble-floored room; the only pieces of furniture other than the bed were two wicker stools, a small table, and a clothes rack wh
ich stood in a corner. In another corner a metal pitcher held a bunch of white rajanigandha sticks, whose mild fragrance pervaded the closed air of the room.
From the east-facing window that lay open, Neerja could observe the garden below: the orchid room, made of mud-plastered bamboo laths, and the blue-flowered aparajita creeper on the fence. Not far off, the water pump throbbed on near the pump, and water ran down the channels to the flower-beds with a trilling sound. In the fragrant mango grove a cuckoo sang fervently, as if in desperation.
The garden porch clock struck twice. It seemed to be matching its tune to the fury of the sun. The gardeners had left for their break; they wouldn’t be back before three. The sound of the gong filled Neerja with pain, her mind grew sad. The ayah came to shut the window. ‘No , no, let it be,’ Neerja protested; she continued to stare at the garden below where the sunlight and shade played hide and seek beneath the trees.
Her husband Aditya had made a name for himself in the floral business. Ever since their wedding, the love that Neerja and Aditya had for each other had come by various channels to mingle together in caring for this garden in all ways possible. In the blossoms and sprouts of their loved garden, their combined joy and love had grown and was expressed in new ways, in new beauty. Just like a person abroad waits eagerly for the day of the special mail delivery, anxious to hear from his friends, so in different seasons Neerja and Aditya would wait earnestly for their plants to greet them in new and novel ways.
Staring unseeingly at her beloved garden now, Neerja could not help recalling images from those days past. It was not very long ago, but the days seemed to lie beyond the endless meadows of time, the history of another age. On the west of the garden was the great ancient neem tree. It used to have a twin, which had decayed and fallen some years ago; the trunk was sawed smooth to make a table. There the two of them would sip tea at dawn, from between the trees the green-bough-strained sunlight would fall at their feet; the garden mynahs and squirrels would arrive to ask favours. After tea, Neerja and Aditya would go about the various chores in the garden. Neerja’s head would be sheltered with a silk parasol with floral designs, while Aditya donned a sola hat and carried on his belt a pair of garden shears. When friends dropped in, socialization would blend with the garden chores. Friends could often be heard saying, ‘Really, dear, your dahlias make us envious.’ Some would ask ignorantly, ‘What are those big flowers? Are they sunflowers?’ and Neerja would reply gleefully, ‘No, no, they’re marigolds.’ Someone with a bit more gardening sense would say, ‘How did you create such huge jasmines, Neerja Devi? There must be magic in your hands. They are as big as togors.’ This knowledgeable person would be duly rewarded with five potted jasmine plants to take home, to the abiding dismay of Hola the gardener. On several occasions thrilled friends were taken on a tour of the grounds—the flower garden, the fruit garden, the vegetable garden, and so on. Before they left Neerja would fill their baskets with roses, magnolias, carnations—and along with the flowers there would be papayas, lemons and wood apples.The serving of tender coconut water would signify the finale of this giving away of bounty. The thirsty would exclaim, ‘What sweet water!’ And they would hear her proud reply, ‘It’s from my garden.’ Everybody would remark, ‘Ah , that’s why!’
The memory of those early mornings spent beneath the trees with the steaming vapour of the Darjeeling tea mingling with the scents of the seasons brought out a long, deep-drawn sigh from Neerja. She wanted to snatch those golden days back from the thief who had stolen them away. But why could her agonized mind not find someone to blame? She was not a person to accept her fate in silence with bowed head. Who was responsible? What child whose reach was all over the universe? What monstrous lunatic? Who could create such meaningless havoc in her perfectly ordered existence!
The ten years after her marriage had passed in pure bliss. Her friends envied her in secret; they felt that she had been given much more than she was worth. The men called Aditya a ‘lucky dog’.
But the boat of Neerja’s domestic happiness hit rock bottom one day, and this had to do with their dog Dolly. Before Neerja had entered the household Dolly used to be Aditya’s sole companion. But with Aditya’s marriage, Dolly’s devotion was divided between the couple, and Neerja’s portion was decidedly more. As soon as she spied the car approaching to pick up Neerja when she had to go out, the dog would turn uncontrollable. She would continuously wag her tail to convey her vigorous objection to her mistress’s departure. Then, she would boldly attempt to leap into the car and would be thwarted by Neerja’s raised forefinger. With a deep sigh Dolly would curl up her tail and lie listlessly at the door. If Aditya and Neerja were late in returning, she would sniff the air and roam around and in the inexpressible language of canines excite the heavens with pathetic questions.
Then some disease suddenly struck Dolly; as she lay ill, she stared mournfully at them, and one day, silently resting her head on Neerja’s lap, she died.
Neerja’s affections were strong and uncompromising. She could not imagine anyone—even God—attempting to intrude on her love. She trusted the world as a support to her. Till the day of Dolly’s death nothing had occurred to shake this faith. But on the day the incredible and the seemingly impossible death of Dolly took place, there appeared the first hole in the fortress of her fortitude and convictions. It signified to her distraught mind the first entrance of an ill omen. It seemed as if the Lord of the worldly life was of a disorderly mind—His apparent gifts could not be relied upon to last.
Everyone had given up hope of Neerja bearing a child. While Neerja was wreaking havoc with her repressed affections showered on their manager Ganesh’s son who was sheltered by them, and as the boy was finding the onslaught of her restless affections unbearable, she found herself pregnant. Maternal feelings welled up inside her; the horizon of the future turned rosy with her excited anticipation of the child she was going to give birth to. Seated under a tree, Neerja whiled away her hours happily, embroidering new clothes for her soon-to-be-born child.
Then came the birthing time. The midwife had foreseen the impending trouble. Aditya became so restless that the doctor rebuked him and kept him away. Complications necessitated an urgent surgery, which left no scope for the survival of the child if Neerja was to be saved. The baby’s death devastated her completely; overcome by shock and trauma, she was unable to get up from bed after the surgery. Like a dried up river lying spent on a bed of sand in summer, her anaemic body lay weary on the bed. The life force that she contained within herself in profusion had suddenly disappeared altogether. Now, as she lay on the bed she could feel the heated breeze bringing in the smell of muchkundo flowers through the open window, or sometimes a breath of the batabi flower—as if her days of spring were softly asking her from the distant past, ‘How are you?’
What caused her most hurt and misery was that Aditya’s distant cousin, Sarala, had to be called to help in the garden. From the open window whenever she saw Sarala wearing a lofty, embroidered silk toka, ordering the gardeners about their work, Neerja found her useless limbs unbearable. Yet when she used to be healthy she used to invite the same Sarala every season during the festive occasion of seed planting. Work would begin at dawn. Then they would swim and bathe in the pool, and eat off plantain leaves beneath the trees; afterwards the gramophone would play native and foreign music. The gardeners would get curds, sweetened rice grains and sweetmeats. The sounds of their merriment could be heard from the tamarind grove. Slowly the day would wind up and the water in the pool would ripple with the afternoon breeze, the birds would chirp on the bokul branches and the day would end on a contented, happy note.
The sweet sap within her, why had it turned bitter today! Just as her weak body was a stranger to her active, healthy former self, her sharp dry nature too was unfamiliar to herself.There was no charity in this nature. At times when the poverty of her mind and body became visible to her, she’d feel ashamed—but she had no control over herself. She found it fright
ening to think Aditya might notice her meanness; that some day he might see clearly that her mind at present was like a fruit mauled by a bat’s teeth, unfit for decent use.
The gong sounded once again. The garden was desolate. Neerja gazed afar where even the mirage of unrealized longing could not be seen, where in the sunlight without shade the void just follows itself.
2
NEERJA CALLED OUT, ‘ROSHNI!’
The ayah came into the room. Elderly, with white streaks in her black hair, thick brass bangles on her hard hands, and the scarf of thin cloth draped on the skirt worn by up-country women—this was Roshni. The posture of her lean body and stern features held the stamp of permanent seriousness; as if in her court of law she was prepared to pronounce judgement against this household. She had reared Neerja—all her affections centred on her. So she viewed with rebellious suspicion anyone who came close to Neerja, even if it was Neerja’s husband.
She entered the room now and asked, ‘Shall I fetch you water, Khokhi?’
‘No, sit.’
The ayah sat on the floor, her knees hunched up.
Whenever Neerja felt the need to talk, to open herself up, she would summon Roshni. The ayah was the audience for her soliloquies.
Neerja began, ‘This morning I heard the door open.’
The ayah said nothing but her expression which reflected her annoyance, could be interpreted as, ‘And when isn’t it heard?’
Neerja asked an unnecessary question, ‘Did he go with Sarala to the garden?’
The answer was certainly known to Neerja, yet everyday she made the same query. Turning the palm of her hand once and twisting her lips scornfully, the ayah sat silent.
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 76
