‘I didn’t like it there Jethamoni.’
‘You were doing well. Your results show it.’
‘I wasn’t happy. I had no friends. The girls there are all Christians and they keep to themselves.’
‘What sort of talk is this? Success doesn’t come easily in this world. One has to struggle hard to achieve it. If you persevere just another two years you’ll be the first lady doctor of India. Just think. Your name will go down in history. You’ll be the pride of the country.’
‘I’m not meant to be a doctor Jethamoni. My head spins whenever I enter the operation theatre.’
‘That’s quite normal. Everyone feels like that in the beginning. You’ll get used to it. Everyone does.’ Then, making his voice as soft and persuasive as he possibly could, he almost begged. ‘Go back child. It’s only for another two years. Tell your father you don’t wish to marry just yet. There’s plenty of time …’
Abala stood silent and unyielding. Her eyes were on the floor and she drew patterns on it with her toe nail. Suddenly Mahendralal lost his temper, ‘Get out of my sight then,’ he shouted. ‘Stubborn girl! If you were my daughter I would have slapped your cheeks. You’ve dashed all my hopes. Go. I don’t want to see your face ever again.’ Durgamohan motioned to his daughter to leave the room. Then, turning to his guest, he said, ‘Why do you lose your temper Dada? The girl’s to be wed in a few months. Give her your blessing.’
‘I can’t dole out false blessing,’ Mahendralal Sarkar rose from his chair. ‘I’m leaving this house never to return. Send for some other doctor when anyone is sick.’
‘That’s not fair Dada. I heard all you had to say. Now you must hear me out. Tell me. Would I have sent my daughter so far from home if I was not keen to see her a doctor? Now she has changed her mind. She’s of marriageable age and wishes to get married. Shall I thwart her?’
‘Who is the boy? Some rich man’s worthless offspring, I presume.’
‘Do you know Anandamohan’s father-in-law Bhagaban Bosu? He was deputy magistrate of Bardhaman. A very fine, upright man and well known all over East Bengal. When I heard that he was looking for a suitable match for his son I sent a proposal. The boy has approved of Abala and—’
‘But what does he do? Fly pigeons like all spoiled brats of rich fathers?’
‘Bhagaban Babu is not a rich man. In fact he is quite heavily in debt. He lost quite a lot of money trying his hand at tea planting in Assam. The boy was also studying medicine but he had to give it up.’
‘Bravo! The ideal couple! Both half doctors! Phoh! I detest people who can’t complete what they’ve started. Spineless cowards! No spirit. No endurance. I spit on them!’
‘Listen to the whole story first. Jagadish—that’s the name of the boy—was a brilliant student and doing very well in medicine. But, unfortunately, while in Assam he had contracted the disease kala azar and hadn’t quite recovered. The fever kept breaking out from time to time. Finally his own teachers advised him to give up medicine and study something else.’
‘I understand now. Abala has seen the boy and is totally infatuated with him. And because he gave up studying medicine halfway she decided to follow suit. Woe to the woman who is more qualified than her husband! Chhi! Chhi! To think that Abala could be so stupid!’
‘Do hear the rest Dada. Then deliver your verdict. Jagadish couldn’t become a doctor but he’s become a scientist. He got his degree in Physics from Cambridge University. And, while in England, he recovered from kala azar. The air in that part of the country is extremely healthy. He’s back now with a teaching assignment in Presidency College.’
‘Aaah!’ Mahendralal s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He stood up in his excitement, ‘A Bengali boy teaching Physics in Presidency College! That’s a white man’s aakhra. How did they allow an infiltrator?’
Astute lawyer that he was, Durgamohan knew how to build up a case. The trump card had to be hidden in the sleeve to be brought out with a flourish right at the end. Smiling at the older man he said gently, ‘Consider the boy’s calibre Dada. Has any Bengali achieved what Jagadish has? You are doing so much for the spread of science in the land. Have you received any recognition? Yet, do you know who recommended Jagadish for the post? Lord Ripon himself.’
‘What!’ Mahendralal almost screamed the question. He started pacing feverishly up and down the room. ‘You know Father Lafon, don’t you Dada?’ Durgamohan went on. ‘Jagadish was his favourite pupil in St Xavier’s College. When Jagadish left for England Father Lafon gave him some letters of introduction one of which was for Mr Fawcett—the famous economist and now PostMaster General of England. Mr Fawcett helped the boy in many ways. Just before Jagadish was to return to India Fawcett sent for him and said, “You’ve done exceedingly well, my boy, and I’m proud of you. I would like to make sure that you get the job you deserve.” Then, handing him a letter he added, ‘The Viceroy is a friend of mine. Go to him as soon as you reach India and give him this.” Jagadish did as he was told. Lord Ripon examined his papers and interviewed him for over an hour. He was obviously impressed because he sent a communication to the Education Secretary to find suitable employment for the boy.’
‘I’ve never heard of the Viceroy recommending a native. It’s unbelievable!’
‘It happened, nevertheless. But there is more to come. The Education Secretary, Sir Alfted Crawford, was of the view that a native had no head for science. He might be allowed to teach Bengali or Sanskrit or Philosophy at the most. But Physics was out of the question. Charles Tawney, Principal of Presidency College, was of the same opinion. Yet they couldn’t ignore the Viceroy’s recommendation either. Crawford offered Jagadish a job in the Provincial Service on the pretext that there was no vacancy in the Imperial Service. But why should Jagadish, with all his qualifications, accept a post in a lower service? He turned down the proposal.’
‘He was right. Absolutely right!’
‘But Lord Ripon had remembered his promise. When, on examining the Gazette, he found the boy’s name missing he sent for Crawford and demanded an explanation. Crawford hastened to make amends. He offered Jagadish a teaching assignment in Presidency College. But the white race cannot overcome its contempt of the dark under any circumstances. The post was not only temporary—the salary offered was a third of what the white teachers received. Jagadish wrote to the Education Department saying that he would teach without an honorarium till such time as the Department deemed him fit to receive equal salary with the rest of his colleagues.’
‘Wonderful!’ Mahendralal exclaimed. He was so moved that tears stood in his eyes. ‘The boy is one in a million. A true diamond! Marry him to Abala at once Durga. Only a mad man would let such an opportunity slip through his fingers.’
‘Do I take it, then, that you are not angry anymore? With me or Abala?’
‘Angry! I’m so happy I could dance with you on my head.’
Then, sobering down he continued, ‘I wasn’t angry Durga. I was disappointed. I had set my heart on Abala becoming a doctor. There are so many women doctors and nurses in Europe. We don’t have even one. You must have heard of Florence Nightingale? The nurse who performed such wonders in Crimea? Can’t our girls follow her example?’
‘Of course they can and will. Abala is not the only girl in India, Dada. She has failed but others will succeed.’
‘Will Jagadish object to Abala taking her degree? Dwarkanath Ganguly is allowing his wife Kadambini to continue—’
‘That I can’t say Dada. It’s up to him and her.’ Then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘They’re not well off. Jagadish doesn’t earn anything as yet and his father is heavily in debt. Jagadish is so high principled—he won’t take a pie from anyone. Not even from me. I don’t know how they’ll manage.’
‘Don’t worry!’ Mahendralal patted the younger man on the back. ‘Everything will come out right. You’ve taken the correct decision. It is the man that counts—not his money. I’ll go see Jagadish this evening and try to persuade
him to let Abala take her degree. A doctor wife will be of great help to him.’
Mahendralal kept his word. Walking into Jagadish’s room that very evening, he saw a young man of about twenty-seven, big and dark with curly hair and a bushy moustache. Jagadish, who had taken a camera apart and was trying to put it together again, looked up to see a tall, portly, middle-aged man in an impeccable three-piece suit and English boots.
‘You’re Bhagaban’s boy are you not?’ The stranger said roughly. ‘Do you know how to tote a gun?’ Jagadish stared at him, his eyes wide in surprise. ‘Of course you do,’ the strange man went on, ‘I remember now. You went tiger shooting when you were little. But I hope you are not out of practice. You see, I wish to fight a duel, with you. You may choose the day and time—’
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I don’t quite understand—’ Jagadish replied politely although he had serious doubts about the man’s sanity.
‘Don’t you? You’re marrying Durga’s daughter Abala—are you not? The fact is that I wished to marry her myself. I was waiting for her to complete her education when you suddenly appeared out of the blue and snatched her away from right under my nose. Well, if you wish to marry the girl you’ll have to prove you’re the better man of the two.’ Then, seeing the bewildered look on the boy’s face, he burst out laughing. Coming forward he clapped Jagadish heartily on the shoulder and said, ‘Just a joke. I’ve heard all about you, my dear boy. You’ve set the sahebs by the ears and the whole country is proud of you. Abala is just the girl you should marry. By the way—you probably don’t know me. I’m a doctor. My name is Mahendralal Sarkar.’ Jagadish rose hastily and touched the older man’s feet. ‘Who doesn’t know you sir?’ he exclaimed. ‘As a student I often visited your Institute for the Cultivation of Science and listened to the lectures.’
‘Well, you’re not a student any more. You’re a brilliant scientist. I invite you to address the gatherings from time to time. On a remuneration, of course. No. No. Shaking your head won’t do. I insist on paying you what I pay the others.’
Two days later Mahendralal Sarkar received a doctor’s call from the house of Janakinath Ghoshal of Kashiabagan. Walking into the drawing room the first person he saw was Janakinath’s daughter Sarala. Sarala sat at the piano playing a little tune and singing the words over and over again. ‘Bandé Mataram’, she sang, ‘Sujalang Suphalang, malayaja sheetalang shasya shyamalang …’
‘Good! Good!’ the doctor cried appreciatively, ‘A very pretty verse! Did you write it yourself?’ Sarala bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘You don’t know anything Jethamoni!’ she cried. ‘This was written by Bankimchandra. Robi Mama set the tune for the first two verses and asked me to do the rest.’
‘Why couldn’t Bankim set the tune himself?’
‘He didn’t intend it to be a song.’
Seeing Sarala, Mahendralal was struck with an idea. ‘Sarala,’ he asked in his sweetest, most persuasive voice. ‘Would you like to study medicine after you pass out?’
‘Why medicine?’ Sarala’s brows came together.
‘Why not? A doctor’s profession is the most noble in the world.’
‘I want to do my graduation first. After that I’ll decide what to do.’
Sarala was about to appear for her Entrance examination.
There were several years before she would graduate. Mahendralal decided that he would keep drilling the idea of becoming a doctor into her head for the next four years. He wouldn’t give up.
At this moment Janakinath Ghoshal walked into the room. His face was flushed and his eyes bright with fever. ‘You seem to be fine,’ Mahendralal began, eyeing him aggressively. ‘Why did you send for me? I don’t like wasting my time.’
‘I’m far from fine. The fever refuses to leave me. Come Mahendra, don’t scold. Give me some of your excellent medicine and get me back on my feet. I have a lot of work before me.’
‘You are on your feet. Unless, of course, I’m seeing a vision.’ Then, banging his fist on a table he cried out angrily, ‘Why aren’t you in bed? Don’t you know that no medicine in the world will work on a person who moves around with fever burning his limbs? Even God can’t help you.’ His eyes fell on Sarala as he said these words and his mood changed. ‘Aren’t you planning to get your daughter married Janaki?’ he asked, quite forgetting his indignation of a moment ago. ‘You married your elder daughter off at her age.’
‘Don’t talk to me of Sarala! She’s taken a vow to work for her country and that’s not possible, she says, unless she remains a spinster. Marriage, a husband and children are not for her. The amazing thing is that her mother agrees with her!’
Mahendralal was charmed. A girl like Sarala—young, beautiful, talented and admired by so many young men—had taken a vow never to get married! To devote her life to her country! What could be more moving? His eyes misted over. Sarala was a gem; a pearl among women. She would make a fine doctor. Abala had let him down. And Kadambini! He sighed deeply as he thought of Kadambini.
Kadambini was the most beautiful girl Mahendralal had ever seen. She was also the brightest—the first female graduate of Calcutta University, sharing the distinction with another girl called Bidhumukhi Bosu. That was a few years ago. Mahendralal Sarkar had advised her to study medicine and she had agreed. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, she had decided to marry Dwarkanath Ganguly—a man seventeen years her senior. Dwarkanath, who had been her teacher in school, was a widower with two children. His daughter Bidhumukhi was of the same age as Kadambini and engaged to be married to a very bright young man called Upendrakishore Roy Choudhury. The other child, a boy, was both spastic and mentally retarded. Dwarkanath was very poor and extremely unattractive in appearance being tall to a fault, gaunt and totally without grace or charm. Everyone had been aghast at Kadambini’s choice. She, who could have had her pick of handsome young men from the first families of Calcutta, had chosen to fall in love with a poor widower twice her age. Mahendralal knew that it was neither love nor infatuation that had prompted her. They had a shared ideal. They were both committed, heart and soul, to the education and upliftment of women. Kadambini knew that marriage with anyone else would put an end to her medical career. Dwarkanath would not only allow her to continue, he would support her in every way he could.
Mahendralal liked the couple so much he visited them often. On one occasion he had gone to Dwarkanath’s house to find Bidhumukhi rocking Kadambini’s baby in her lap and trying to put him to sleep. The baby was screaming lustily and poor Bidhumukhi was having a hard time of it. Dwarkanath, wrapped in an enormous gamchha, was in the kitchen struggling with the evening meal. All this was surprising. But most surprising of all was the sight of Kadambini, poring over her books in a corner of the room, totally oblivious of her surroundings. So great was her concentration that she didn’t even raise her head when Mahendralal entered the room with his heavy tread singing one of her husband’s songs in a cracked and tuneless voice.
Bharat sleeps …
Ah! Bharat sleeps and will sleep on Till her daughters wake and rise.
Chapter XXXVIII
Ashutosh Chowdhury’s ancestral house was in Krishnanagar but he had rented a small house in Scott Lane, near City College, where he lived with his brothers and sisters. A brilliant student, Ashutosh had set a record in Calcutta University by taking his BA and MA degrees in the same year. Immediately afterwards he had left for England where, after obtaining a Tripos in Mathematics from the University of Cambridge, he had studied at the Bar and returned to India a qualified barrister. But though Law and Mathematics were his professional pursuits his first love was literature. He was an avid reader of poetry—Bengali, Sanskrit, English and French—and had excellent discrimination and a fine ear for the nuances. It was this trait that had endeared him to Robi. They had first met on board ship during Robi’s second voyage out to England—an abortive attempt that had ended in Madras on the whim of his nephew Satyaprasad. But those few days were enough to establish a friendship th
at lasted a lifetime. The two were men of the same age and had a great deal in common.
From Ashutosh Robi learned that evaluating poetry was a special skill—one that had to be developed with care. It was not enough to express appreciation or dislike. The serious reader needed to prepare himself for the task of evaluation by acquainting himself with the tradition to which the poem belonged. To take an example, as Ashutosh pointed out, it was imperative to have some knowledge of the work of the Vaishnav pada kartas in order to receive the full impact of a modern lyric such as the kind Robi wrote. Ashutosh was a brilliant critic. He could take up a poem, analyse it line by line and point out parallels in ideas, images and forms with other older sources.
Robi liked Ashutosh immensely and was proud to be his friend. Consequently he was a frequent visitor to the house in Scott Lane. Ashu’s fifth brother, Pramatha, a boy of seventeen, was his ardent admirer. Not daring to intrude in the conversations his eldest brother had with his poet friend, he often stationed himself outside the door from where he gazed with admiring eyes at his hero. Robi Babu, Pramatha thought, looked like a Greek god. And, indeed, Robi had grown into an extraordinarily handsome man. He wore his hair long these days. The thick locks that flowed down to his shoulders were a rich glossy black as were the soft masses of hair that covered his cheeks and chin. His skin was burnished gold and his features seemed carved out of marble. His body was tall and well formed and radiated with health and vitality. In the heat of the summer Robi wore no shirt. Above his dhuti he wrapped a fine uduni loosely around his back and chest.
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