Having introduced Kunda, Nagendra said, ‘If you do not keep her, there is nowhere for her to stay. Later, when I go home, I will take her with me to Govindapur.’
Kamala was very mischievous. As soon as Nagendra, having said this, turned away, Kamala lifted Kunda in her arms and ran off. There was a tub with some warm water in it, and into this, without warning, she dropped Kunda. Kunda was very frightened. Laughing, Kamala took up some sweet-smelling soap and started to wash Kunda’s body. A servant-girl, seeing Kamala herself engaged in such a task, came quickly running up, saying, ‘I will do it, I will do it’—Kamala sprayed the servant with warm water, and she fled.
Kamala scrubbed and bathed Kunda with her own hands—Kunda emerged as beautiful as a lotus bathed in dew. Then Kamala dressed her in beautiful white clothes; smoothed her hair with fragrant oil; and, having given her several ornaments to wear, said, ‘Now, come and pay your respects to my brother. And mind, don’t pay your respects to the master of the house. If he sees you, he will want to marry you!’
Nagendranath wrote all about Kunda to Suryamukhi. He had a close friend called Haradev Ghoshal who lived in a distant province—Nagendra, writing to him also, spoke of Kundanandini thus:
Tell me, then, at what age is a woman beautiful? You will say, after forty, since your Brahmini is a year or so older than that. The girl called Kunda of whom I have told you—she is thirteen. Seeing her, I think that this is the time of beauty. The sweetness and simplicity which precedes the first transition to adolescence diminishes afterwards. Kunda’s simplicity is wonderful; she understands nothing. Even now, she runs out to play with the girls of the street; if she is forbidden, she is frightened, and refrains. Kamala is teaching her to read and write. Kamala says she shows great intelligence at it. But she understands nothing else. If I say: how big and blue your eyes are—your two eyes are like autumn lotuses floating in eternally clear water—those two eyes remain gazing at my face—she says nothing—looking at those eyes, I lose my train of thought and can no longer explain anything. You will smile at this revelation of what my mental strength amounts to; you, especially, tearing your hair, have issued writs for the mockery of infatuations; but if I could make you stand in front of those two eyes, you would learn what your own mental strength is. I have not yet been able to decide what kind of eyes they are. I have not seen them look the same twice; it seems to me that they are not of this world, they do not seem to see the things of this world well; they seem to be engaged in looking at what can be seen in the heavens. It is not that Kunda is beautiful without flaw. In comparison with others, her appearance would probably not be praised; yet it seems to me that I have never seen anyone so beautiful. It seems to me that there is in Kundanandini something beyond this earth, as if she is not made of flesh and blood; as if moonlight fashioned her by embodying the beauty of the flowers. Comparisons do not readily come to mind. She is incomparable, a manifestation of mental peace—if you imagine the rays of an autumn moon falling on a clear lake, you will have some idea of what she is like. I cannot think of anything else to compare her with.
Several days after Nagendra had written to Suryamukhi, he received an answer. The answer was thus:
I do not know what fault your servant has committed. If you are to stay for so long in Kolkata, why can I not come to you and serve you? This is my humble prayer; if you send word, I will come immediately.
Have you forgotten me, having acquired a young girl? Many things are favoured when they are immature. It is the green coconut that is refreshing. Perhaps we lowly women, too, are only sweet when young? Otherwise, why would you forget me on acquiring this young girl?
Enough of such jesting. Have you entirely given away any claim to the girl? If not, I would beg her from you. I have some say in what is to be done with her. It is proper for me to have some authority over anything you might acquire, but I see that these days it is your sister who has it all.
What will I do with the girl? I will give her in marriage to Taracharan. If Providence has brought you a good girl, then do not disappoint me. If Kamala lets her go, bring Kundanandini with you when you return. I have written to Kamala, too, with this request. I have been engaged in having ornaments made, and other preparations for a wedding. Do not delay in Kolkata: a man who stays six months in Kolkata is a fool, is he not? And if you still want to marry Kunda yourself, I will set about preparing a welcome!
I will reveal Taracharan’s identity later. But whoever he was, both Nagendra and Kamala agreed to Suryamukhi’s proposal. Therefore, it was decided that Nagendra would take Kunda with him when he returned home. Everyone being happily agreed, Kamala, too, had some ornaments made for Kunda. Yet mankind is ever blind! A day would come when Kamalamani and Nagendra, stricken to the dust and beating their brows, would think: What an evil hour it was in which we acquired Kundanandini! What an evil hour it was in which we agreed to Suryamukhi’s letter.
So Kamalamani, Suryamukhi and Nagendra, all three together, planted the poison-seed. All three would, in time to come, lament.
Then Nagendra had the boat prepared, and, taking Kunda with him, set out for Govindapur.
Kunda nearly forgot her dream. Once, on the journey with Nagendra, she thought of it. But considering Nagendra’s kindly, charming countenance and his affectionate character, Kunda could not believe for a minute that any harm would come to her from him. Some people have the self-destroying impulse of moths, which seeing a blazing fire, rush headlong into it.
6
Taracharan
THE POET KALIDASA KNEW A GARDENER WOMAN, WHO USED TO SUPPLY HIM with flowers. Kalidasa was a poor Brahmin, and could not pay the price of the flowers—in exchange, he used to recite to the gardener poems composed by himself. One day, a wonderful lotus opened in the gardener’s pool; she brought it and presented it to Kalidasa. As a reward, the poet began to recite the Meghaduta. The Meghaduta is an ocean of delights, but everyone knows that its opening verses are somewhat dry. The gardener did not like them—she grew angry and got up to go. The poet asked, ‘Friend gardener! Are you going away?’
The gardener said, ‘Where is the savour in your poetry?’
The poet said, ‘Gardener! You will never reach heaven.’
The gardener said, ‘Why?’
The poet said, ‘There are stairs to heaven. One reaches heaven after traversing a hundred thousand stairs. There are also stairs to this Meghaduta of mine—these savourless verses are those stairs. You could not traverse these humble stairs—so how will you be able to traverse a hundred thousand stairs?’
Then the gardener, in fear of losing heaven through a Brahmin’s curse, listened to the Meghaduta from beginning to end. Delighted at hearing it, the following day she fashioned the many-coloured garland called madanmohini, brought it to the poet and placed it on his head.
This humble work of mine is no heaven—neither has it a hundred thousand stairs. Its savours are few, and its stairway small. This dry chapter is some of that stairway. If among my readers there are some of the gardener’s disposition, I warn them that without traversing this stairway they will not reach the savour.
Suryamukhi’s father’s home was in Konnagar. Her father was an upper-class Kayastha; he was a treasurer in some firm in Kolkata. Suryamukhi was his only child. During her childhood, a widow called Shrimati lived in the house as servant to the Kayastha girl, and looked after her. Shrimati had a child whose name was Taracharan. He was the same age as Suryamukhi. Suryamukhi used to play with him during their childhood, and because of their childhood companionship, she grew as fond of him as of a brother.
Shrimati was extremely beautiful, and consequently she soon fell into danger. Coming under the eyes of a rich man of bad character in the village, she left Suryamukhi’s father’s house. No one could discover exactly where she went. But Shrimati never returned.
Shrimati left Taracharan behind. Taracharan remained in Suryamukhi’s father’s house. Suryamukhi’s father was of a very compassionate disposition. He rai
sed the orphaned boy as his own child, and far from employing him in any such lowly occupation as that of a servant, taught him to read and write. Taracharan studied at a free missionary school.
Later, Suryamukhi was married. Several years after that, her father died. By then, Taracharan had learned English after a fashion, but had been unable to obtain any position. Having nowhere to live after the death of Suryamukhi’s father, he went to live with Suryamukhi. Suryamukhi had induced Nagendra to establish a school in the village. Taracharan was employed there as a master. These days, by the power of grants-in-aid,2 there are meek, love-song singing schoolmasters with parted hair in every village; but at that time ‘Master Babus’ were not commonly seen. Consequently, Taracharan became one of the village deities. He read the Citizen of the World and the Spectator; and word was widely circulated in the market that he had read three books of geometry. By virtue of all this, he became a member of the Brahmo Samaj3 of the zamindar of Devipur, Devendra, and was accepted into the society of Babus. Taracharan wrote many essays on widow remarriage, the education of women, and the evils of idolatry, read them every week to the Samaj, and made many long speeches beginning with ‘O most gracious Lord of all!’ Some he copied from the Tattvabodhini, some he took from the writings of other pundits. He was always saying, ‘Discard your worship of bricks and stones; arrange marriages for your uncles’ widows; teach your daughters to read and write—why do you keep them in cages? Let your daughters out.’ The particular reason for his liberality towards women was the fact that there was no woman in his own house. He was still unmarried; Suryamukhi had made many efforts to get him married, but because the story of his mother’s leaving her home was known in Govindapur, no upper-class Kayastha had agreed to give him his daughter. Many dark-skinned, ugly daughters of low-class Kayasthas were available. But Suryamukhi thought of Taracharan as a brother; how could she call the daughter of some low-class person sister-in-law? With this in her mind, she had not accepted them. She was searching for the beautiful daughter of some upper-class Kayastha; and at this point, learning from Nagendra’s letter of the beauty and virtues of Kundanandini, she determined to arrange a marriage between her and Taracharan.
7
You, With Eyes Like Lotus Petals! Who Are You?
KUNDA, WITH NAGENDRA DATTA, CAME TO GOVINDAPUR. AT THE SIGHT OF Nagendra’s residence, Kunda was speechless. She had never seen such a large establishment. It had three outer buildings and three inner ones. Each building was like a palace. Through an iron gateway, one entered the principal outer building, which was surrounded by high, painted iron railings. Having entered, one passed along a fine, grass-free, well-made red path. On each side of the path, was a plot of earth filled with soft, new grass, a paradise for cows. In these were circular beds, made beautiful by blossoming trees with flowers and leaves of all hues. Ahead was the very tall, one-and-a-half-storeyed reception hall. It was reached by a very fine flight of steps. Along its veranda, were great fluted columns; its floor was of marble. Above the cornice, in the centre, was a huge terracotta lion with flowing mane and tongue lolling out. This was Nagendra’s reception hall. On either side of the plots of earth with their grass and flowers, that is, one to the left and one to the right, were two rows of single-storeyed buildings. In one row were the records room and the office. In the other were the storage room and the servants’ quarters. On each side of the gate was a gatekeeper’s room. This first outer building was called the ‘kachari building’. Beside it was the ‘puja building’. In the puja building was a hall for big festivals, as prescribed; and on three sides were two-storeyed buildings around a big courtyard, according to custom. No one lived in this building. At the time of Durga puja, it was filled with ceremonious activities, but now grass was growing through the tiles in the courtyard, the hall and the covered ways were filled with pigeons, the compartments were stacked with all the furniture, and the doors were locked. Beside this was the thakur bari. Housed therein was a painted shrine, a beautiful stone hall for devotional dancing; and on three sides were rooms, one each for cooking food for the deities, for the priests, and for guests. There was no lack of people in this building. There were groups of priests with garlands around their necks and tilaks of sandal-paste, and groups of cooks; people were bringing trays of flowers, bathing the images of the gods, ringing bells, arguing, preparing sandal-paste, and cooking. Servants were bringing water on carrying poles, cleaning the rooms, bringing washed rice, and quarrelling with the Brahmins. Somewhere in the guest-rooms, an ash-smeared sannyasi, having untied his matted hair, was lying on his back. An ascetic with one arm raised was dispensing medicine in the maidservants’ building of the Datta establishment. A white-bearded brahmachari, wearing a red-ochred loincloth and swinging a rosary, was reading the Bhagavad Gita written by hand in the Devanagari script. Some greedy sadhu was causing a disturbance by helping himself to measures of ghee and flour. A group of bairagis, wearing garlands of tulsi around their withered necks and tilaks on their foreheads, were playing drums, the tufts of long hair on the crowns of their shaven heads swaying; and with noses moving from side to side were singing kirtans: ‘I did not get to speak—elder brother Balai was with me . . .’ Vaishnavis, wearing the Vaishnavi streak of mud on the bridges of their noses, were singing to the rhythm of tambourines songs such as ‘Of sweet ears’ or ‘Yatra-leader Govinda’. Young, modern Vaishnavi girls sang with the old-fashioned ones, middle-aged women joined their voices with the elderly. In the middle of the dancing hall, the neighbourhood’s idle boys were wrestling, quarrelling and hitting each other, and directing various kinds of refined abuse at each other’s parents.
These were the three outer buildings. Behind these three buildings were the three inner buildings. The building behind the office building was the building used by Nagendra himself. Only he and his wife lived in it, with the maidservants who attended on them. And their personal things were kept there. This building was new, built by Nagendra himself, and its construction was very well-ordered. Beside it, behind the puja building, stood the original building. It was old, and poorly-constructed; the rooms were low, small, and dirty. This old house was filled day and night with the continuous loud talking of countless daughters of kinsmen, maternal aunts and their cousins, paternal aunts and their cousins, widowed maternal aunts, married nieces, wives of paternal aunts’ brothers, daughters of maternal aunts’ brothers, and other such female relations, like a banyan tree full of crows. And it was constantly filled with various kinds of outcry, laughing, joking, quarrelling, arguments, stories, gossip, the fighting of boys and the weeping of girls, calls of ‘Bring me water’, ‘Pass the clothes’, ‘You haven’t washed the rice’, ‘The boy hasn’t eaten’, ‘Milk and curds’, and other such sounds, like a troubled sea. Beside this, and behind the building for worship, was the kitchen. There was even more of a to-do over there. A cook, wearing metal ornaments on her ankles and heating a bowl of rice, was giving an account to her neighbour of the pomp at her son’s wedding. Another, with eyes streaming with tears from smoke as she blew on green wood, was slandering the establishment’s steward, and advancing various kinds of evidence for his intention of stealing money by providing sappy wood. A young beauty, putting fish in hot oil, was grimacing horribly with eyes closed, showing rows of teeth, because the heated oil had spattered onto her body; someone else, with oil-smeared, unruly locks from bathing bound on the top of her hair-parting, was stirring dal with a stick—like a cowherd prodding cows with a club. With big blades fixed in pieces of wood set out front of them, Bami, Kshemi, Gopal’s mother, Nepal’s mother, Lau, Kumra, Bartaku and Patala were cutting up vegetables; from this came sounds of swishing and crunching, and from their mouths gossip of the neighbourhood and about the master, and abuse of each other. And there was discussion of various matters such as that Golapi had become widowed very young, Chandi’s husband was a great drunkard, Kailasi’s son-in-law had got an excellent job—he was a police clerk—there were no plays in the world like those of Gopal U
re, there was not another boy as naughty as Parvati’s son in all Bengal, were not the English a race of demons, how Bhagirath had brought the Ganga, and whether the Bhattacharyas’ daughter’s lover was Shyam Bishwas. A dark-skinned, fat woman was killing fish at a stroke with a knife-and-board set up on an ash-heap in the courtyard; the kites, seeing the pride of her huge-limbed body and the dexterity of her hands, did not, in fear, come close, but neither did they forbear to swoop down once or twice. A grey-haired woman was fetching water; an ugly woman was pounding spices. Somewhere in the storehouse, a maidservant, a cook and the storehouse-keeper were engaged in a terrible brawl. The storehouse-keeper was arguing that the ghee she had given out was the right amount—the cook was arguing that it was insufficent. The maidservant was arguing that if the storehouse was left unlocked then they could give out enough. Many boys, girls, beggars and dogs were sitting around, hoping for some rice. The cats did not hope—whenever opportunity presented itself, they would ‘sinfully enter another’s house’4 and take food without permission. And a cow which had entered without sanction, was chewing calabashes, eggplant and cucumber stalks, and banana leaves, with eyes closed, savouring the nectar of the gods.
Beyond these three inner buildings, was a flower-garden. Beyond the flower-garden was a fine lake, like a piece of blue cloud. The lake was surrounded by a wall. Between the three inner buildings and the flower-garden was a path to the postern gate. It was by this path that one entered the three inner buildings.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 12
