Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1

by Rabindranath Tagore

  I said, ‘Go away, don’t disturb me now.’

  Thako said, ‘Mejoranima’s nephew Nanda has brought a weird machine from Calcutta—it sings like a person. So Mejoranima sent me to fetch you.’

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. A gramophone in the middle of all this. Every time it was wound up, it emitted the nasal tones of theatrical songs. It had no worries. When machine imitated life, it resulted in this terrible irony.

  The sun set and dusk crept in. I knew whenever Amulya arrived he’d send for me. But I couldn’t be at peace. I called the bearer and said, ‘Send word to Amulyababu.’

  The bearer came back a little later and said, ‘Amulyababu is not there.’

  It was just a few words, but my heart heaved with fear. Amulyababu is not there—in the melancholy dusk the words rang out like a wail. Not there—he’s not there. He appeared like the golden ray of the sunset and then he’s not there. I began to imagine many scenarios, both possible and impossible. It was I who pushed him to his death. That he didn’t think twice was his greatness, but how would I live with this?

  I didn’t have a single memento of his; all I had was his loving gift to his sister—the pistol. It seemed like a divine intervention. My own personal God, in the shape of a child, had placed the tool to wipe out the blot that soiled the roots of my life and then vanished into thin air. What a loving gift—what an overtly pure signal.

  I opened the box, took the pistol out and touched it to my forehead reverently. At that very moment, the bells and cymbals from our temple courtyard rang out to signal the evening arati. I bowed low on the ground and prayed.

  That night I fed the sweets to everyone. Mejorani came and said, ‘You went to all this trouble for your own birthday—why didn’t you leave something for us to do?’ She began to play a host of stage artistes on her gramophone, raising high voices in stretched decibels. To me it sounded like the neighing of the horses from the stables.

  The meal took a while. I wanted to touch my husband’s feet tonight. I went into the bedroom and found him fast asleep. The whole day he had been roaming around, plagued by endless troubles. I moved aside the mosquito net very carefully and softly lay my face on his feet. As my hair touched his feet, unconsciously he pushed my head away with his feet.

  I went and sat in the veranda. In the distance a silk-cotton tree stood in the dark like a skeleton; it had shed all its leaves and the sickle moon gradually sank out of sight behind it. Suddenly I felt all the stars in the sky were afraid of me and the huge nocturnal world looked at me askance, because I was all alone. A lonely human is perhaps the biggest anomaly of Nature. Even the person who has lost every relation to death is not truly alone—he has company from beyond the grave. But when a person has everyone near and yet far away, who has simply fallen away from the daily rhythm of life, a glance at her face in the depth of night would send a chill down the spine of the universe. I am not present at the spot where I stand, I am far away from the people in whose company I stand, I walk, talk and live right on the face of a fissure, like the dewdrops on a lotus leaf.

  But, when a person changes, why doesn’t everything about her change? When I look to my heart I find everything there as before, only the positions altered. What was once neatly kept is now a muddle, what was once strung on a thread now lies scattered in the dust. That’s why my heart was breaking and I wanted to die. But all of it still lived in my heart and so death didn’t seem to be an end. I felt death would bring a more terrible sorrow. I would have to clear the accounts by living—there was no other way.

  Oh my Lord, please forgive me this once. All that you had once handed to me as the fortune of my life, I have now turned into a burden. Today I can neither bear it nor relinquish it. Just once more, play the tune on the flute that you once played by the pink sky of my dawn and all this will be resolved; only that tune from your flute can possibly join all that is broken, turn the sullied into pure again. Play the flute and recreate my life all over again. I do not see any other way open to me.

  I lay face down on the floor and wept my heart out; some pity was needed, some refuge, a hint of mercy, some consolation that all this may yet be resolved. I said to myself, ‘I’ll lie like this night and day, oh Lord, I’ll fast, I won’t drink water until your blessings reach me.’

  At this point I heard footsteps. My heart swayed. Who says gods never show themselves? I did not look up, in case he found my gaze repulsive. Come, come, come—let your feet touch my head, come, stand on my swaying heart, oh Lord—let me die this very instant.

  He came and sat near my head. Who? My husband. In my husband’s heart that Lord of mine was touched, who could no longer bear my pain. I felt I’d faint. And then the floodgates of tears opened, my nerve ends burst and let loose a storm of sorrow. I pressed his feet to my heart—wouldn’t they get imprinted there for all eternity?

  Now I could have easily confessed everything. But after this, could there be any words? Let my confessions be.

  Gently, he stroked my head. I was blessed, I would be able to take my cup of hemlock and humbly touch my Lord’s feet on the face of the humiliation that lay before me the next day.

  But it broke my heart when I realized that the shehnai that had played nine years ago will never be played again, in my entire life. I came into this room, a new bride. Which gods do I have to pray to, so that the bride could come back, dressed in red and stand on that ceremonial threshold once again? How much longer, how many aeons, before I could go back to that day nine years ago? The gods may be able to create a new, but did they have the power to recreate a broken piece of creation?

  Nikhilesh

  TODAY WE ARE LEAVING FOR CALCUTTA. A MEANINGLESS ACCUMULATION of joys and sorrows only increases one’s burdens. Sitting idle is pointless and accumulation is a futile activity. It is a mere construction that I am the lord of this house; my true identity is of a traveller on the journey of life. Therefore, the lord of the house would be repeatedly injured until the final injury—death. My union with you was along the way—as far as we could go together, it was for the good; beyond that, stretching and pulling would only make a noose of it. Let that noose be, I am setting off today. As we walk along, the little shared glances, the brush of the hand is all very well. And then? Then there is the way of the eternal, the unbounded force of life—how much can you cheat me of, my beloved? If I pay heed to the tune playing ahead of me, I can hear the sweetness dripping through every crevice of our parting. The goddess’s infinite cup would never run dry and so she sometimes shatters our cup, makes us cry and laughs at our misery. I shall not go about picking up the broken pieces. I shall carry my regrets in my heart and carry on.

  Mejorani came and said, ‘Thakurpo, your books have all been packed into cases, loaded on to bullock carts and sent off. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that I still haven’t been able to give them up.’

  It’s good to be attached to some things. But are you planning not to return?’

  ‘There will be visits and trips, but no dwelling here anymore.’

  ‘Is that so? In that case come with me once and take a look at all the things I am unable to give up.’

  I went to her room and found bundles and bags of all sizes. She opened one box and said, ‘Look here, Thakurpo, the things I need to make my paan. I have powdered the dry lime and stored it in a bottle. These jars here each contain a masala. Here are the cards, I haven’t forgotten those—even if you don’t play with me, I’ll find people. This comb here is the homegrown one that you gave me, and this— ’

  ‘What is all this, Mejorani? Why have you packed your things into boxes?’

  ‘Because I am coming to Calcutta with you two.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear brother—I shan’t try to be friends with you or squabble with the little princess. Death is inevitable and so the sooner one reaches the Ganges the better. When I think of the barren banyan tree under which you’ll cremate me here, I shudder
to even die—why do you think I’m troubling you all for so long?’

  It was as if this house of mine had spoken up at long last. Mejorani came to this house when she was nine and I was six years old. I have sat in the shade of the high walls of the terrace and played with her. I have climbed mango trees, plucked the raw fruit and hurled them down as she gathered them from below, chopped them up, mixed them with salt and chilly and made tasty tidbits. I was entrusted with the grave duty of stealing all those things from the pantry that were necessary for the wedding of the dolls, because in Grandma’s eyes I could do no wrong. Later, when she wanted my brother to indulge her fancies, I was the messenger boy; I always badgered Dada until he gave in and she got her way. I also remember: in those days the local doctor had strict orders for a fever—three days on a diet of lukewarm water and cardamom seeds. Mejorani couldn’t bear my predicament and she often smuggled food into my room; many a times she was caught and severely reprimanded. As we grew older, our joys and sorrows plumbed deeper shades; so often we fought. The issues of property and finance also caused some rifts, jealousy and bitterness. Then Bimal came into it all, and sometimes it felt like the rifts would never heal. But then it was always obvious that the bonds of childhood surpassed the superficial wounds. Thus, a genuine relationship had been nurtured from those early days into the present times. This relationship spread out its branches into this huge mansion, into the rooms, courtyards, verandas, gardens and its shadows lurked all over. When I found Mejorani had packed all her belongings and was ready to leave the house with us, this eternal relationship in my heart was shaken down to its very roots. It became apparent to me why Mejorani, who had never stepped out of this house since the day she was nine, was actually prepared to let go of her familiar world and surrender to the unfamiliar. But she simply couldn’t utter those words, and made so many other trivial excuses. This woman, betrayed by Fate, without a husband or a child, had nurtured just this one relationship with her heart and soul. As I stood that day, amidst all her possessions strewn around the room in various stages of packing, I felt her pain in a way I had never felt it before. I realized that the many petty squabbles that Bimal and I had with her, together or individually, were not really about materialism. It was because she had never been able to establish her claim over this one relationship. Bimal appeared from nowhere and she paled into insignificance—it pained her ever so often but she had no grounds for complaint. Bimal had also understood that Mejorani’s claims over me went beyond mere social norms, and that’s why she was so resentful of this childhood bond of mine. Today, my heart stood shocked with a realization; I sat down on a trunk. I said, ‘Mejoranididi, I feel like going back to those days when you and I first met in this house.’

  Mejorani sighed heavily and said, ‘Oh no, this time not as a woman, not again. All that I have borne is enough for one lifetime, never to be repeated.’

  I said, ‘The liberation that comes through sorrow is greater than the sorrow itself.’

  She said, ‘That’s possible, Thakurpo. Liberation is for you men. We women want to bind, we want bondage—you won’t get your liberation from us so easily. If you want to spread your wings, you’ll have to take us with you; you can’t throw us away. Why do you think I have set out this medley of baggage? You men shouldn’t be left light and airy.’

  I laughed, ‘That is obvious. It s easy to see what a burden it is. But since you tip us generously for carrying this burden, we don’t complain half as much.’

  Mejorani said, ‘Our burdens are of trivia; whatever you want to leave out will protest “I am trivial, I don’t really weigh much”—and thus with trivial weights we load your back. What time are we leaving, Thakurpo?’

  ‘Eleven thirty at night—there’s still a lot of time.’

  ‘Thakurpo, please promise me one thing—you’ll have an early lunch and take a nap this afternoon. You won’t get much sleep in the train at night. Your health is in such bad shape that you look just about ready to collapse any time. Come now, go and have your bath.’

  At this point Khema came forth and murmured, ‘The inspector has brought someone with him and he wants to see his majesty,’

  Mejorani flared up, ‘His majesty is not a thief or burglar that the inspector is always after him. Tell him he has gone to have his bath.’

  I said, ‘Let me go and have a look—it may be something urgent.’

  Mejorani said, ‘Not on your life. I will send some of the sweets that the little one made yesterday and that ought to keep him busy for a while.’ She dragged me by the hand, pushed me into the bathroom and bolted the door from outside.

  From inside I said, ‘But my clean clothes—’

  She said, ‘I’ll see to that. You finish your bath.’

  I did not have the strength to go against such indulgent torture. It was one of the precious things of life. Let the inspector have sweets, let there be a slight neglect of my duties. In the last few days, the inspector had been routinely rounding up suspects in connection with the robbery. Every so often he’d drag an innocent man to the estate and have a circus. Today was probably a repeat performance. But would the inspector have all the sweets himself? No! I banged loudly on the door from inside.

  Mejorani spoke up, ‘Pour some water on your head, quick, your temper is shooting up.’

  I said, ‘Send enough sweets for two people. The man whom the inspector has dragged in as a suspect deserves them more—tell the bearer to give him the bigger share.’

  I finished my bath as quickly as possible and came out. At the door I found Bimal sitting on the floor. Was this the same Bimal, my Bimal—proud, arrogant, stubborn? With what prayer in mind could she have come to my door? As I stalled in surprise, she stood up, bent her head down and spoke softly, ‘I need to speak to you.’

  I said, ‘Come into our room.’

  ‘Are you going somewhere for some urgent work?’

  ‘Yes, but let that be. First let’s talk—’

  ‘Oh no, you finish your work. We can have our talk after you’ve had your meal.’

  Out in the living room, I found the inspector’s plate was empty and the suspect whom he had brought in was still eating the sweets.

  I was amazed, ‘What’s this—Amulya?’

  He looked up with a mouth full of sweets and said, ‘Yes, sir. I have eaten my fill and if you don’t mind, I’ll take the rest with me.’ He bundled the remaining sweets into his handkerchief.

  I looked at the inspector, ‘What is going on?’

  The inspector laughed and said, ‘Your majesty, the mystery of the thief still remains unsolved and now I am puzzling my head about the mystery of the stolen loot.’ He spread out a torn bundle that held a bunch of notes, ‘Here is your majesty’s six thousand rupees.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘Right now, from Amulyababu’s hands. Last night he went to the head clerk of your treasury in Chakua and said to him that the stolen loot had been recovered. The clerk was more frightened at this development than when the actual robbery took place. He was afraid that everyone would suspect him of hiding the money and now when the noose was tightening, he’d cooked up this improbable story to return it. He made an excuse of bringing something for Amulyababu to eat and rushed to the police station. I went there on horseback and since dawn I have been with him. He says he won’t tell me where he got the money. I said then he wouldn’t be allowed to go. He said he’d lie, I said, fine, give it to me. He said he found it hidden in the bushes. I said lying is not so easy—you have to give me all the details of where the bush is and what you were doing there. He said he’d have plenty of time to make up all those stories.’

  I said, ‘Haricharanbabu, what’s the point of dragging this gentleman’s name in the mud?’

  He said, ‘Not just any gentleman, he’s the son of Nibaran Ghoshal who was my class-friend. Sire, let me tell you the real story. Amulya came to know who has stolen the money. He knows him well through this Vande Mataram nonsense. He wants
to take the blame on himself and spare this other person. Herein lies his bravado. Son, we too were once eighteen years old, just like you; I was studying in Ripon College. Once, on the Strand, I wanted to save a bullock-cart driver from the wrath of a policeman and nearly landed up in jail myself. It was a narrow escape. Sire, now it’s almost impossible to catch the thief, but I can tell you who it is.’

  I asked, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Your head-clerk Tinkori Dutta and that Quasim Sardar.’

  The inspector left, after giving many justifications to support his conclusion. I asked Amulya, ‘If you tell me who had taken this money, no harm will come to anyone.’

  He said, ‘I took it.’

  ‘But—they said a gang of robbers—’

  ‘I was alone.’

  Amulya’s tale was a strange one. After finishing his dinner, the head-clerk was rinsing his mouth outside, where it was dark. Amulya had a pistol in each pocket. One was loaded with bullets and the other with blanks. Half his face was covered by a black mask. He held up a lantern to the clerk’s face and fired a shot from the pistol with blanks. The clerk screamed in terror and fainted. A few of the guards came running and he fired shots over their heads. They ran into rooms and slammed shut the doors. Quasim Sardar came forward with his lathi. Amulya shot him in the leg and he fell down. He then got the clerk to open the iron chest, grabbed six thousand rupees and borrowed a horse from our estate. He rode all night long, left the horse somewhere in the night and was back here at dawn.

  I asked, ‘Amulya, why did you do this?’

  He said, ‘I had a great need.’

  ‘Then why are you giving it back?’

  ‘If you send for the person who has ordered me to return it, I’ll confess everything.’