Gora (Modern Classics)

by Tagore, Rabindranath

  ‘Excellent! That’s the very attraction you must resist. Let their life-cycle remain an undiscovered chapter, especially since they are predatory creatures. In your attempt to explore their private lives, you might ultimately delve so deep as to disappear altogether.’

  ‘Look, this is one of your faults. You imagine that you alone are empowered by Ishwar our Lord, while the rest of us are weaklings.’

  Gora seemed to be struck by the novelty of this. ‘Right you are!’ he cried, slapping Binoy on the back. ‘That is indeed my fault. A grave fault it is.’

  ‘Oh, you have another major fault. You are utterly incapable of gauging the severity of the heaviest blow a person’s spine can bear.’

  At this point, Gora’s elder step-brother Mahim came upstairs, his heaviness making him pant. ‘Gora!’ he called.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ responded Gora, rising quickly.

  ‘I’ve come to see if the rumbling rain-clouds have descended upon our terrace. What’s the matter tonight? Have you dispatched the English halfway across the Indian Ocean, by now? No loss to the English it seems, but all this roaring might inconvenience Boro Bou, who’s nursing a headache in bed downstairs.’

  Mahim went back downstairs. Gora stood there, overcome by shame. Along with shame, a degree of rage also began to smoulder within him, whether directed at himself or others, it was hard to say. ‘In every matter, I end up applying more force than necessary,’ he said slowly after a while, as if to himself. ‘I fail to remember how intolerable that must be for others.’

  Coming close, Binoy grasped Gour’s hand affectionately.

  ~3~

  As Gora and Binoy were preparing to leave the terrace, Gora’s mother arrived there. Binoy touched her feet respectfully.

  From her appearance, it would not seem that Anandamoyi was Gora’s mother. She was very slim, with a compact figure; if she had any grey hair, it could not be seen; at first glance she appeared to be under forty. Her lineaments were extremely graceful, as if someone had painstakingly used a lathe to carve the lines of her lips, chin and forehead. Her body was shorn of all excess; her face always bore an expression of clear, alert intelligence. Her complexion was dark, in no way comparable with Gora’s. There was one thing about her that everyone immediately noticed: she wore a chemise with her sari. At that time, though women of the modern set had begun to adopt the blouse or chemise, elderly housewives continued to dismiss the trend as a flagrant Khristani custom, a Christian practice. Anandamoyi’s husband, Krishnadayal Babu, worked at the Commissariat. Since childhood, Anandamoyi had lived with him in the western parts of the country. Hence she did not harbour the superstitious notion that it was shameful or ludicrous to cover one’s body properly. Even after scrubbing the house, polishing, washing and mopping, cooking and serving, sewing, counting, keeping accounts, dusting, airing, enquiring after neighbours and relatives, time still hung heavy on her hands. If she fell ill, she would never want to take it seriously, saying, ‘Falling ill can do me no harm. Without work, how will I stay alive?’

  ‘Whenever Gora’s voice can be heard from downstairs, we know that Binu must have come,’ said Gora’s mother. ‘The house was absolutely quiet these last few days. Tell me, son, what’s the matter? Why haven’t you been coming? You haven’t been ill, have you?’

  ‘No, Ma, not ill,’ replied Binoy, diffidently. ‘It’s been raining so.’

  ‘Indeed!’ cried Gora. ‘When the rains end, Binoy will say it’s too sunny. After all, when you blame the gods, they don’t answer back. Only the omniscient One knows what’s really on his mind.’

  ‘What nonsense, Gora!’ Binoy expostulated.

  ‘Truly son, you shouldn’t say such things,’ Anandamoyi agreed. ‘Men’s minds are sometimes cheerful, sometimes sad; moods don’t always stay the same! To make an issue of it amounts to harassment. So Binu, come along to my room. I have arranged some refreshments for you.’

  ‘No, Ma, that’s not allowed!’ Gora intervened, vehemently shaking his head. ‘I shan’t let Binoy eat in your room.’

  ‘Is that so indeed!’ said Anandamoyi. ‘Why bapu, I never ask you to eat with me, after all. Meanwhile your father’s grown so fanatical about purity, he refuses to eat anything but self-cooked food. This Binu of mine is a good boy, not a fanatic like you. You always try to keep him away by force.’

  ‘You’re right, I will force him to stay away,’ Gora asserted. ‘We can’t have meals in your room until you dismiss Lachhmia, that Khristani maid of yours.’

  ‘Oh Gora, don’t say such things!’ protested Anadamoyi. ‘She has always fed you by hand, reared you since you were a child. Until just the other day, you wouldn’t relish your food without her chutney. I’ll never forget the way Lachhmia nursed you back to health when you contracted smallpox as a child.’

  ‘Give her a pension, buy her land, build her a house, whatever you please. But she can’t continue here, Ma’

  ‘Gora, do you think money can settle all debts!’ Anandamoyi expostulated. ‘She wants neither land nor a house. She’ll die if she can’t see you.’

  ‘Then keep her on if you please,’ said Gora, ‘but Binu can’t dine in your room. We must follow restrictions, there is no getting away from them. Ma, you belong to such a distinguished professor’s family: for you not to follow traditional restrictions …’

  ‘Oh your mother used to follow traditional custom, once,’ Anandamoyi assured him. ‘I had to shed many a tear on that account. And where were you then? Everyday, I would set up a clay Shiva and prepare to pray, but your father would come and fling it away. Those days, I’d even shrink from tasting rice cooked by any Brahman I didn’t know. The railway network was not extensive then; how many days I spent fasting, on bullock carts, postal carriages, palkis or camelback! Was it easy for your father to break my orthodoxy? His saheb-masters would applaud him for having his wife accompany him everywhere. He even got a pay-rise. For that very reason, they’d keep him in the same post for extended periods, often reluctant to let him move. Now in old age, having relinquished his job and acuired heaps of money, he has suddenly done an about-face, becoming very fastidious about purity. But I can’t do that. The superstitious ideas I had inherited from my ancestors have been uprooted, one by one. Can they now be retrieved at anyone’s bidding?’

  ‘Achchha, forget your ancestors,’ urged Gora. ‘They won’t raise any objections, after all. But for our sake, there are a few rules you must observe. You may not honour the shastras, but your son’s honour must surely be preserved?’

  ‘O, why reason with me at such length! I alone know what goes on in my mind. If I hindered my husband and my son at every step, wherein would my happiness lie? But do you know that I threw orthodoxy to the winds when you were still a babe in arms? The moment you clasp an infant to your heart, you realize that nobody is born into a caste. Ever since I realized that, I knew for sure that if I despised someone for being a Christian or a lowcaste person, Ishwar would snatch you away from me as well. May you continue to occupy my lap, light up my home, and I’ll accept drinking water from every caste in the world!’

  Anandamoyi’s words suddenly roused a hint of doubt in Binoy’s mind. He glanced at Anandamoyi, then at Gora, but at once dismissed any wish to argue.

  ‘Ma, your logic is not clear,’ Gora protested. ‘Boys survive even in the homes of those who are discriminating enough to obey the shastras. What gave you the idea that Ishwar might apply special rules in your case?’

  ‘He who gave me a son like you also gave me such ideas. So, what am I to do? I have no hand in this. O you crazy boy, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at your lunacy. Anyway, let such things be. So, can’t Binoy dine in my room?’

  ‘He’s so greedy he’d rush there at once, given the opportunity,’ said Gora. ‘But, Ma, I shan’t let him. With a mere handful of sweetmeats, we can’t delude him into forgetting he is a Brahman’s son. He must sacrifice a lot, control his passions, only then can he preserve the glory of his high birth. But please
don’t be angry, Ma. I bow at your feet.’

  ‘Me, angry? How can you say that!’ Anandamoyi exclaimed. ‘You are acting in ignorance, I tell you. I must privately bear the pain of knowing that although I brought you up, you still … Anyway, I can’t practice the dharma you preach. Never mind if you don’t let me feed you in my room, but at least I get to see you in the evenings, and for me that’s enough. Binoy, don’t look so miserable, baap. You have a soft heart and feel I must be hurt, but it’s nothing really, baap. I shall invite you some other time, and serve you food prepared by an expert Brahman cook, not to worry! But as for me, bachha, I shall accept water from Lachhmia: let me make that clear to everyone.’ Gora’s mother went downstairs.

  ‘Gora, things have gone too far!’ said Binoy slowly, after a brief silence.

  ‘On whose part?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Not in the least. I want to protect each person’s boundaries. Once you begin to yield the slightest ground on some pretext, you’re ultimately left with nothing.’

  ‘But she’s your mother!’

  ‘I know what it means to have a mother. As if you need to remind me of it! How many people have a mother like mine? But if I don’t begin to obey orthodox restrictions, I may one day cease to obey my mother as well. Look Binoy, let me tell you something: remember that the heart is a wonderful thing, but not above all else.’

  ‘Listen Gora, Ma’s words have created strange stirrings in my heart today,’ Binoy ventured hesitantly, after a while. ‘I feel Ma has something on her mind that she can’t explain to us, and that is tormenting her.’

  ‘Oh, Binoy, don’t let your imagination run wild!’ cried Gora impatiently. ‘It’s a mere waste of time, and quite futile.’

  ‘Because you never look closely at anything in this world, you dismiss as fanciful whatever escapes your notice. But I tell you I’ve often observed that Ma seems to nurse a certain anxiety about something, as if there is something amiss that she can’t put right, which causes some hidden pain in her domestic life. Gora, listen closely to what she says.’

  ‘I listen as closely as possible. If I try any harder, I’m likely to misconstrue her words, so I don’t even try.’

  ~4~

  An idea that sounds definite when aired as an opinion may not always appear so certain when applied to human beings. At least, not to Binoy, who had very strong sensibilities. During an argument he might vociferously defend an opinion, but in practice, he could not help respecting human beings more than opinions. In fact it was doubtful whether Binoy had accepted Gora’s public views out of conviction, or his deep love for Gora. Emerging from Gora’s house, as he slowly picked his way through the slush that wet evening, his mind wrestled with the dual claims of ideas and human beings.

  Binoy had readily embraced Gora’s stated conviction that to protect itself from various direct and indirect attacks, society must now remain especially alert about purity of touch and taste. He had engaged in sharp debates with those who opposed this view, arguing that when a fortress is besieged from all sides, there is nothing narrow-minded about guarding it with one’s life, sealing every pathway, every door and window, even the tiniest aperture. But when Gora forbade him to dine in Anandamoyi’s room, he was now inwardly tormented with pain.

  Binoy was fatherless, and had also lost his mother at an early age. His khuro, his father’s younger brother, lived in the countryside. Since childhood, for the sake of his education, Binoy had grown up alone in the Kolkata house. Ever since he got to know Anandamoyi through his friendship with Gora, he had regarded her as his mother. How often had he visited her room to harass her for food, eagerly snatching at the morsels! How often had he feigned envy, accusing Anandamoyi of partiality to Gora in serving their portions of food! How anxious Anandamoyi became if she did not see Binoy for a few days, how often she would eagerly wait for their society-meetings to end so she could personally supervise his meal, Binoy was well aware. Could Anandamoyi bear it if that very same Binoy, out of communal hostility, refused to dine in her room tonight? Could Binoy bear it?

  ‘From now on, Ma will offer me food prepared by a good Brahman cook. She’ll never cook for me again. She said it cheerfully, but what a heart-rending thought!’ Binoy made way his home, turning this thought over and over in his mind.

  The room was dark and empty. Books and papers lay scattered everywhere. Striking a match, Binoy lit the sej. The oil lamp’s glass chimney was smudged with the bearer’s fingerprints. The white cloth on the writing table was stained in places with ink and grease. The room felt stifling. The absence of human company and affection seemed to choke his heart. Saving the nation, protecting the community—try as he might, he could not see these duties as real or true. Truer by far was that unknown bird, which had approached the cage one bright, beautiful Sravan morning, then flown away again. But Binoy must not dwell on memories of that unknown bird. Certainly not. So his mind sought refuge in drawing a mental picture of Anandamoyi’s room, from which Gora had banished him.

  The bright parquet floor, sparkling clean; at one end, a spotless, soft bed resembling white swan-wings; beside it, on a small stool, a castor-oil lamp would have been lit by now; leaning towards the light, Ma would be embroidering a kantha using skeins of many-coloured thread, with Lachhmia on the floor, prattling away in her broken Bengali; Ma would ignore most of what she said. Whenever Ma felt hurt, she would take up her embroidery. Binoy fixed his mind’s eye on the image of her quiet, work-absorbed countenance. ‘May the glow of affection on this face save me from all perplexity,’ wished Binoy. ‘Let this very face become my image of the motherland; may it inspire me and keep me steadfast in my devotion to duty.’ In his heart, he invoked her once as ‘Ma!’ and declared: ‘No shastra can convince me that your rice is not my heavenly nectar, my amrita!’

  In the silent chamber, the large clock ticked away. Binoy could not bear to remain in the room. After gazing for a while at a lizard hunting an insect near the light on the wall, he rose and went out, carrying an umbrella. He was not sure why. Perhaps it was his inner purpose to return to Anandamoyi. But it occurred to him presently that as it was Sunday, he could attend Keshabbabu’s lecture at the Brahmo gathering. Immediately discarding all his hesitation, Binoy strode ahead. He knew there was not much time left for the lecture to end, but that did not deter him.

  Arriving at the venue, he saw the devotees emerging. Umbrella aloft, he stood at the corner of the street. That very moment, Poresh Babu came out of the temple, his face calm and serene. He was accompanied by a few relatives. For an instant, in the light of the gas streetlamps, Binoy glimpsed a youthful face among them. Then, to the sound of rolling carriage-wheels, the scene vanished like a bubble in the ocean of darkness.

  Binoy had read many English novels, but how could he relinquish the beliefs of a genteel Bengali family? That it was dishonourable for the woman and degrading for him to seek her out so eagerly, was a notion that no argument could drive from his mind. So a terrible sense of shame mingled with the joy that filled Binoy’s heart. ‘I seem to be heading for a moral downfall!’ he thought. Although he had argued with Gora about this, his lifelong inhibitions would not let him regard a woman in a romantic light if society did not sanction it.

  Binoy did not make it to Gora’s house. He went home, his mind in turmoil about many things. The following afternoon, when he arrived at Gora’s place after leaving his house and wandering here and there, the shadows were deepening at the end of a long, rainy day. Gora had lit the lamp and settled down to write.

  ‘So Binoy, which way does the wind blow now?’ he enquired, without raising his head.

  ‘Gora, let me ask you something,’ said Binoy, ignoring his words. ‘Does Bharatvarsha, the idea of India, appear very real to you? Very clear? You think of it day and night, but in what form?’

  Gora stopped writing and fixed his penetrating gaze briefly on Binoy’s face. Then, laying down his pen, he leaned back on the chowki and said: ‘I think of Bharatvarsha
, like the ship’s captain who constantly bears in mind the port at the other end of the sea, whether he is feasting or reveling, at work or at rest.’

  ‘Where is this Bharatvarsha of yours?’

  ‘Where the compass here points, day and night,’ replied Gora, touching his heart, ‘not in your Marshman saheb’s History of India.’

  ‘Where your compass points, does something exist?’

  ‘Indeed it does!’ cried Gora, indignantly. ‘I may lose my way, or even drown, but my treasured port remains. It is my Bharatvarsha in all its glory, replete with wealth, knowledge, spiritual faith. To say that this Bharatvarsha does not exist! That only the falsehood around us is real! This Kolkata of yours, with its offices, its courthouses and its few brick-and-wood bubbles! How disgusting!’ Gora gazed intently at Binoy for a while. Lost in thought, Binoy made no reply.

  ‘Here, reading and writing, running after jobs, slaving away from ten to five without any sense of purpose, this false, illusory Bharatvarsha is what we have taken for the truth,’ declared Gora. ‘That is why we rush about dementedly day and night, all twenty-five crores of us, mistaking false prestige for honour, futile labour for accomplishment. Caught in this delusion, can we ever find the impulse to strive for a new life! That is why, day by day, we are fading away. There is a real Bharatvarsha—a complete India. Unless we establish ourselves there, we can’t absorb its true living essence into our minds and hearts. Therefore I say, forgetting all else, discarding book-learning, the lure of prestige, and the temptation of odd profits, we must set sail for that very port, whether we drown or perish. No wonder I can never forget the true, complete image of Bharatvarsha!’