Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1

by Rabindranath Tagore

  My second sister-in-law was sitting and cracking betel nuts on the balcony, which I had to cross on my way out. Today I didn’t hesitate in the least. She asked, ‘Where to?’

  I said, ‘To the sitting room.’

  ‘So early? Morning games, is it?’

  I went my way without replying. She started singing,

  ‘My Radha keels over as she walks,

  Like the crab of the deep sea,

  And oh, she doesn’t know of the sticky sugar.’

  When I walked into the sitting room, I found Sandip lost in a book listing the paintings exhibited at the British Academy, his back to the door. Sandip considered himself quite a connoisseur of art. One day my husband said to him, ‘If artists are in need of a tutor, they won’t have a problem finding a suitable one as long as you are alive.’

  It was unlike my husband to speak so derisively; but these days his temperament had changed. He never missed a chance to hurt Sandip’s ego.

  Sandip said, ‘Are you of the opinion that artists don’t need any further instruction?’

  ‘People like us will always have to learn new lessons from the artists themselves because there are no fixed rules in art.’

  Sandip scoffed at my husband’s humility and laughed heartily; he said, ‘Nikhil, you believe that indigence is the biggest wealth and the more you invest it, the richer you grow. I claim that if someone doesn’t have an ego, he’s like moss in the rapids, floating about aimlessly.’

  My state of mind was a strange one. On the one hand I wished that my husband would win the argument and Sandip’s ego would get a jolt, yet it was this same aggressive ego in him that attracted me—like the sparkle of an expensive diamond which nothing could put to shame. Even the sun couldn’t outshine it—instead, it seemed to gain a surge of defiance from every challenge.

  I entered the room. I knew Sandip had heard my footsteps but he pretended he hadn’t heard it and continued reading. I was afraid he’d broach the topic of art. I still felt shy about the kinds of pictures and the kinds of things Sandip liked to discuss with me on the pretext of art. To overcome that shyness I had to pretend that there was nothing to be shy about.

  So, for an instant I was tempted to just go back when suddenly Sandip heaved a great sigh, looked up and seemed startled to see me. He said, ‘Oh, there you are!’

  There was a covert censure in his words, both in his eyes and his tone of voice. I was in such a state that I even accepted this censure. Thanks to the claims that Sandip had acquired over me, it was as if my absence of two or three days was also a crime. I knew that Sandip’s resentment was an insult to me; but I was too weak to be incensed.

  I didn’t respond and just stood there silently. Although my eyes were elsewhere, I was aware that Sandip’s accusing eyes laid siege to my face and refused to budge. What was this all about! If he spoke something, I could at least hide behind those words and gain some respite. When my embarrassment became unbearable I said, ‘Why did you send for me?’

  Startled, Sandip said, ‘Does there have to be a purpose? Is it wrong to be friends? Why this disregard for that which is the greatest in this world? Queen Bee, must you drive away the heart’s adulation from the door, like a stray dog?’

  My heart was fluttering. Dark clouds seemed to gather around me and there was no way to stop them. Fear and excitement struggled equally for mastery. Will I be able to bear the weight of this catastrophe or will it break my back? Perhaps I’d fall flat on my face on the dusty wayside.

  My hands and legs were trembling. I stood very firmly and said to him, ‘Sandipbabu, you sent for me saying there’s some urgent work of the country and hence I dropped my household chores and came here.’

  He smiled a little and said, ‘My point exactly. Do you know that I have come here to worship? Haven’t I told you that I clearly perceive the power of my country in you? Geography is not a Truth. One can’t lay down one’s life for a map. Only when I see you before me I realize how beautiful the country is, how dear, how full of power and life. I will know that I’ve received my country’s command only when you anoint my brow yourself and wish me luck. When I’ll fall to the ground, mortally wounded as I fight bravely, I’ll remember this and never think I’ve fallen on a piece of land in geographical terms, but instead on an anchal—do you know which kind? It’s the anchal of the sari you wore the other day, red as the earth and its border as red as a stream of blood. Can I ever forget it! This is what makes life dynamic and death attractive.’

  As he spoke, Sandip’s eyes burnt bright. I couldn’t figure out if it was the fire of reverence or hunger that burnt in his eyes. I remembered the day when I first heard his speech. That day, I’d forgotten if he was a live flame or a human being. It’s possible to behave humanly with ordinary humans—there are rules and codes in place for that. But fire belongs to a different genre altogether. In an instant it can dazzle your eyes, turn destruction into an object of beauty. You begin to feel that the truth that lay hidden among the neglected driftwood of everyday life, has taken up its radiant form, rushing to scorch the reserves stashed away by the misers everywhere.

  After this, I didn’t have the power to speak. I was afraid that at any moment Sandip would run to me and grab my hand, because his hands were shaking just like the trembling flames and his gaze rested on me like sparks of fire.

  ‘Are you determined to privilege the trivial domestic rules and codes?’ Sandip spoke up. ‘You women have so much energy, the very whiff of which can make life or death a trifling matter to us; is that to be wrapped in a veil and kept indoors? Today, please don’t hesitate, don’t listen to the wagging tongues around you; today you must snap your fingers at mores and margins and come rushing into freedom.’

  When the adulation for the country mingled thus with the adulation for me in Sandipbabu’s words and the cords of reticence were sorely strained, then did my blood throb and dance! The discussions of art and Vaishnav poetry, of the relations between man and woman and various other real and intangible subjects, clouded my heart with guilt. But today the gloom of the embers caught fire again and the blaze of light from it veiled my shame. I felt that it was a wondrous, divine marvel to be a woman.

  Alas, why didn’t that marvel in all its visible brilliance flash through my mass of hair at that very instant! Why didn’t a word come forth from my lips, which could, like a chant, instantly take the nation through a fiery initiation!

  At that moment, the maid Khemadasi appeared, wailing and screaming loudly. She said, ‘Please settle my accounts and let me go. Never in my entire life have I been—’ The rest of her words was drowned in sobs.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  Apparently my second sister-in-law’s maid, Thako, had unnecessarily quarrelled with Khema and called her unmentionable names.

  I tried to pacify her saying that I would look into it and she would get justice but it was impossible to get her to stop wailing.

  It was as if someone had poured a bucket of dirty water on the musical piece that was moving towards a crescendo that morning. The muck that was inherent in woman, beneath the budding lotus, was dredged up. In order to cover that up in front of Sandip, I had to rush indoors immediately. I found my second sister-in-law sitting in the balcony, as before, cracking betel nuts with her head lowered; a small smile lingered on her lips and she hummed, ‘My Radha keels over as she walks’—nothing about her indicated that anything had gone wrong anywhere.

  I said, ‘Mejorani, why does your Thako abuse Khema for no reason thus?’

  She raised her brows and said, ‘Oh really, is that true? I’ll take the broom to that vixen’s back and throw her out. Just look at that: so early in the day she has gone and spoilt your session in the sitting room. And I’d say, Khema is also quite a fool—can’t she see that her mistress is chatting with a babu outside? She just landed up there with her tales—I see she’s lost all sense of shame and decorum! But, Chhotorani, you don’t have to trouble yourself over these domest
ic issues. Why don’t you go on outside and I’ll resolve the matter a$ best I can.’

  The human mind is a strange thing; how suddenly the wind changes and the sail turns around. I felt it was so out of place in my usual domestic routine for me to go and converse with Sandip in the morning, leaving all my domestic duties undone, that I just walked back to my room without a word.

  I knew for a fact that at the right time my second sister-in-law must have urged Thako to pick a fight with Khema. But I stood on such unstable grounds myself that I couldn’t say anything on these matters. Just the other day, in the heat of the moment I’d fought so defiantly with my husband to sack Nanku, the guard, but I couldn’t sustain it till the end. Gradually my own agitation made me feel embarrassed. To add to that, my sister-in-law came and said to my husband, ‘Thakurpo, I am to blame. Look here, we are traditional women and your Sandipbabu’s ways don’t really seem very proper to us—so, I thought it was for the best and I instructed the guard—but I didn’t ever think that this would be an insult to Chhotorani; in fact I thought the opposite—alas for my Fate, more fool I!’

  Thus, whenever I tried to look at something in glorious terms, from the perspective of the country or worship, and it curdled from the bottom in this way, my initial reaction would be anger, followed by guilt.

  Today I came into my room, shut the door, sat by the window and began to think, if only one stayed within the bounds of the preordained rules, life could be so simple. Looking at my sister-in-law sitting cheerfully on the balcony, cracking betel nuts, made me realize how inaccessible the task of sitting on a simple seat and doing everyday chores had become to me. Every day I asked myself, where will it all end! Shall I die, will Sandip leave, will I recover one day and forget all this like a febrile delirium—or will I break my neck and sink into such a disaster that I’ll never be able to recoup from it in my lifetime? If I couldn’t effortlessly accept the good fortune that Fate had sent my way, how could I tear it to shreds thus?

  The walls, ceiling, floor of this room, which I’d stepped into as a new bride nine years ago, were all gazing at me in amazement on this day. When my husband passed his MA and returned from Calcutta, he had bought a vine of some island in the Indian Ocean for me. It had just a few leaves, but the long bunch of flowers that bloomed in it were so beautiful, as if a rainbow was born in the lap of those few leaves and swung in its cradle. The two of us took that vine and hung it up by the window here, in our bedroom. The flowers bloomed just that once and never again; I have the hope that it’ll bloom again. It is amazing that I still water the plant routinely; it is strange that the thick twine binding the vine hasn’t loosened one bit—the leaves are still as green.

  About four years ago, I framed a photo of my husband in an ivory frame and put it up on the mantlepiece. Occasionally when my gaze rests upon it, I can’t look away. Till six days ago I used to bow before that picture, place flowers around it after my morning bath. So many days my husband had argued with me about this.

  One day he said, ‘In worshipping me you make me bigger than I am and this embarrasses me.’

  I said, ‘Why should you feel embarrassed?’

  He said, ‘I’m not just embarrassed, I’m also envious.’

  I said, ‘Listen to you ! Who are you jealous of?’

  He said, ‘That fake me. This makes me feel that you aren’t satisfied with the ordinary me and you want an extraordinary someone who’ll overwhelm your senses. That’s why your imagination has created an ideal me and you’re playing a game of make-believe.’

  I said, ‘I feel so angry when you say such things.’

  He said, ‘No point getting angry with me, instead you should be mad at your destiny.You didn’t really pick me out in a swayamvara; you had to take whatever you got with your eyes shut. Hence you’re trying to rectify as much of me as you can, with spirituality. Since Damayanti had a swayamvara she could pick out the man over the god and since all of you haven’t had a swayamvara, every day you ignore the man and garland the god.’

  That day I was so angry with what he said, tears sprang to my eyes. The memory of it stops me from raising my eyes and looking at the picture on the mantlepiece.

  There’s another picture inside my jewel box.The other day I pretended to dust and clean the sitting room and picked up the photo-stand in which Sandip’s photo is right beside my husband’s, and brought it inside. I don’t worship that photo and there’s no question of bowing before it either; it stays covered up amidst my precious stones and jewellery and it brings such a thrill only because it is a secret. I shut all the doors of the room before I open the box and look at it. At night, I slowly enhance the light of the kerosene lamp and hold the photo before it and look at it silently. Every day I think that I should just consign him to that flame, turn him to ashes and finish it off for all times; and again, every day, I heave a sigh, slowly cover him up with my precious stones and jewellery and keep the photo under lock and key. But wretched, hapless soul: who was it that gave you these precious gems and jewels? So many caresses are intertwined with these. Where will they hide their face now? I’d be happy to just die.

  Once Sandip said to me, ‘It’s not the inherent nature of women to vacillate.They don’t have a left or right, they can only go ahead.’ He always says, ‘When the women of the country will rise, they’ll speak much more lucidly than its men: “I want”—on the face of that want, no good or bad, no possible or impossible will be able to stand its ground. They’ll just have that one claim: “We want”, “I want”. These words are the core chant of creation. This chant burns tempestuously in the fire of the sun and the stars. Its predilection of love is extreme; since it has desired man, for ages untold it has been sacrificing thousands of living things to that desire. That terrible chant of “I want”, of the devastation of creation, is alive only in the women today. That’s why the cowardly men are trying to raise dams on the way of that primitive flood of creation, so that it doesn’t wash away their frail-as-pumpkin-creeper-frames as it roars with laughter and dances on its way. Men think they have raised these dams for all times to come. It’s collecting, the water is collecting—today the body of water in the lake is quiet and sombre; today it neither moves nor speaks; silently it fills the pots and pans in man’s kitchen. But the pressure will mount and the dam will burst; then the dumbstruck powers of all this time will roar “I want, I want” and rush forth.’

  These words of Sandip strike up a drumming in my head. So , whenever there’s a conflict with my self within me, when shame swears at me, I think of his words. Then I realize that this shame I feel stems from the fear of social repercussions, which takes the form of my second sister-in-law who sits on the balcony cracking betel nuts looking at me mockingly. Do I even care about her! My complete fulfilment is in being able to say ‘I want’ promptly, unwavering, with all the strength I possess. Failure lies in not being able to say it. What’s with that vine or the mantle—do they have the power to insult or mock the radiant ‘I’?

  I had a strong desire to throw the vine out the window and bring the photo down from the mantle: let the shameless nudity of the destructive forces unfold. My hand did go up, but my heart ached and tears came to my eyes—I threw myself on the floor and began to weep. What, oh what will become of me? What is in store for me!

  Sandip

  WHEN I READ MY OWN WORDS I FIND MYSELF ASKING, IS THIS SANDIP? AM I made of words? Am I a book with covers of flesh and blood?

  The earth is not a dead creature like the moon; it breathes and its rivers and oceans send up vapours—it’s enveloped by that vapour and dust rises all around it. It is covered by this film of dust. If someone looked at this earth from the outside, he’d only see the reflection of this vapour and dust; would he catch a clear glimpse of the countries and continents?

  The same way, when a person is alive the sighs of Idea rise from within him and so he becomes misty through that haze. The spots where he is clear, with land and water, where he is peculiar, cannot be se
ep: it feels as though he is a sphere of light and shade.

  I have begun to feel that like the living planet, I too am tracing that sphere of Ideas in me. But I am not entirely just what I desire, what I think or what I decide. I am also that which I don’t like, which I don’t desire. I was created even before I was born; I haven’t been able to select myself. I have to make do with whatever fell into my hands.

  I know this very well that the mightier one is also the cruel one. The law is for the commoners and the extraordinary ones are above it. The earth is a level ground and the volcanic mountain prods through it with its horns of fire and rises up above it. It doesn’t mete out justice to others around; it only looks to its own self. It’s only by successful malevolence and unfeigned brutality that anyone has ever become rich or powerful, be it a man or a race. Only by blithely swallowing one, will ‘two’ be able to come into its own or the unbroken line drawn by ‘one’ would have continued unscathed.

  Hence, I preach the practice of the unlawful. I tell everyone, crime is moksha, crime is the burning flame; when it doesn’t burn it turns to ashes. Whether race or man, crimes must be committed to get somewhere in this world.

  But still, this is only my Idea and not the entire me. However much I extol crime, there’re some holes, some gaps in the cloak of Ideas and some things slip out through it, which are indeed naive and gentle. It is because most of me was already created even before I became myself.

  Sometimes I put my followers to the test of heartlessness. Once we went to a garden for a picnic. A goat was grazing there and I asked who’d be able to cut off its hind leg with a machete. When everyone faltered, I went and did it myself. The man who was the most merciless in the entire group, fainted when he saw this sight. My calm, serene face made everyone bow down and pay homage to me as a great man, above mortal feelings. That day everyone glimpsed only the vaporous sphere of my Idea. But it was best to hide those spots where I was weak and merciful—whether this was my own doing or that of Fate—and where my heart was weeping within me.