A few minutes later the rain came—in a little drizzle at first, then, gaining momentum, it became a torrent. The tell-tale marks of suffering and anguish on Bharat’s face were washed away. Drenched with rain drops it looked like a newly blown flower—unbruised by time and the hands of men. Bharat slept through the rain—a deep, restful sleep.
Book II
Chapter I
It was the month of Ashadh. In the sky the newly darkening clouds played hide and seek with the sun, chequering the earth with light and shadow. Occasionally a light rain winged past tike a flock of twittering birds. The zamindar’s bajra floated proudly on the breast of the wide river. The banks on either side were so far away that they seemed etched in water, which changed colour with the changing sky.
The bajra was not too large and was being manned by only six boatmen. Two guards with guns sat on top of the boat under a huge umbrella and kept their eyes skinned for any danger that might lurk in the waters. The two puffed at their hookahs and spoke in low voices. They had received instructions from the steward to be as quiet as possible.
There was only one passenger within. He lay prone on his bed in the luxuriously fitted out state chamber, a pillow under his chest and a slate in his hand on which he scribbled something diligently. He was Rabindra, the youngest son of Debendranath Thakur of the Thakurs of Jorasanko. That hoary patriarch had many sons yet he was hard put to find someone who could tour his vast estates, scattered all over the districts of Bengal and Orissa, and collect the taxes. His eldest son Dwijendranath was a scholar and philosopher—totally out of touch with the mundane affairs of life. His second, Satyendranath, was a busy civil servant. His third, Hemendranath, was dead and two others were insane. The son in whom he had reposed the greatest faith had disappointed him most bitterly. After the disastrous crash of his shipping business Jyotindranath was reduced to a lamp without a flame. Robbed of all his light, he had crept under the sheltering wings of his Mejo Bouthan. He was afraid of facing his father and his father had lost all interest in him.
Dwijendra’s eldest son Dwipendranath had assumed a fair degree of responsibility for the family on reaching adulthood. But Dipu was a city boy and used to its luxuries. He didn’t mind supervising the accounts in the khazanchi khana but he drew the line at travelling all over his grandfather’s estates in boats and bullock carts. Yet it was imperative that someone do so. The presence of the zamindar or a member of his family, from time to time, kept the peasants reminded of their obligations. Debendranath’s sons spent lavishly but didn’t care to ask where the money was coming from. And so he had no option but to put his youngest son to the test. Rabindra was intelligent and gifted but he had been whiling his time away in Calcutta writing poetry. Determined to give him some responsible work that would wipe his silly fancies away, Debendranath had sent him on a tour of the estates. He had received reports that the boy was doing the work allotted to him with seriousness and commitment and was pleased.
Rabindra was thirty-two years old, a man in his prime, strikingly handsome and of robust health. He was, now, on his way to Sajadpur or Shahjadapur which lay in Pabna of the Yusufshahi pargana.
Though there were kuthis everywhere he went, Rabindra preferred sleeping in the bajra, which he did often. In consequence, everything he could possibly need was stocked in the boat. Sacks of fragrant Kaminibhog rice, golden moong dal, almonds and raisins, baskets of apples, oranges, bananas and coconuts, oat meal and quaker oats, jars of oil and spices, mango pulp dried in sheets, pickles and preserves, earthen pots full of sweetmeats, scented soap, hazeline, cream, tooth powder—the list was endless. There were, besides all these, cases of brandy, champagne and wine. The last three items were of no use to Rabindra. Unlike his peers from other wealthy families of Calcutta, Rabindra did not care for alcoholic drinks. But he had to keep them in his boat, for entertaining English and Indian officials in high positions was part of his job.
It was late afternoon. The bajra was skimming, like a stately bird, over the wide expanse of water clear as glass. The zamindar’s son was in his chamber reclining on the bed. But his hand neither held a glass of wine nor the tube of an albola. Nor were his eyes rivetted on a dancer or singer performing before him. He was alone, quite alone. He wore a simple dhuti and nothing else. His elaborate costume of choga, chapkan and turban hung from a bracket on the wall. The sun coming in from the window fell on his bare back and feet bathing them with sweat but he would not move away. Heat didn’t bother him. His mind was on the poem he was writing. He thought of nothing else. At this moment he was not a zamindar. He was a poet—the finest and most illustrious poet of Bengal.
All through boyhood and youth Rabindra had written his poems with one, dearly beloved face floating before his eyes. For years after her death that face had haunted him but now, in his prime, he saw another—constantly, invariably. She had left her childhood behind her and was now a young woman, exquisite of face and form and keen and sensitive of mind and spirit. Indira and Mrinalini were of the same age. But what a world of difference lay between them! Mrinalini’s husband had tried hard to educate her, to instil in her a love of poetry, art and music. But his efforts had been wasted. He had never seen her face glow with empathy when he read out a favourite piece. Once or twice she had even fallen asleep. She was no companion to him except in bed where, of course, she was all that he desired. She had given him three lovely children whom he adored. And she was an excellent housewife. She was an ideal daughter-in-law for the family but no soulmate for her poet husband.
Of late Rabindra couldn’t rest till he had shown what he had written to Indira. Indira was not only the most beautiful of the Thakur girls, she was also the most talented. She had recently been awarded the Padmavati Suvarna Padak for standing first among the girls who appeared in the University examination. She spoke and wrote English and French with a competence that matched her performance in her mother tongue, Bengali. She also read all three literatures with avid interest. She was an accomplished musician too, excelling equally in Indian and Western classical forms. Her latest craze was her uncle Rabindranath’s songs for which she could set the notations in the twinkling of an eye. But despite her beauty and many talents she was twenty and still unwed, though not from any lack of suitable proposals. She rejected each and every one of them—why she wouldn’t or couldn’t explain. Was it because she couldn’t bear to leave her Robi ka?
Indira had been deeply attached to Rabindranath from her childhood and he had returned her love with tender affection. Now, it truly seemed as though they couldn’t live without one another. Not one of the suitors she met came anywhere near the standard she had set for herself. Robika was her ideal man. He was so brilliant; so handsome and distinguished looking and had such a large heart. Where was the man who could match this ideal, even remotely? When in Calcutta she had to see him every day. And when he was away, she spent her days writing him letters which he replied faithfully filling sheet after sheet with his elegant flowing hand. Writing to Indira was the work he loved best and, in doing so, he often set aside other, more important tasks. Her mind was so receptive; so attuned to the most delicate nuances of his thoughts and feelings that he could open up to her as he could to no one else.
A couple of years back Rabindra had sailed to England borrowing the passage money from his nephew Satyaprasad—his father having turned down his request with the statement that he was not sponsoring any trip abroad for any of his sons. Satyaprasad had become quite calculating of late. He lent money to his uncles and cousins and took care to retrieve it with interest. Rabindra had not undertaken this voyage for purposes of study. He had planned it as a pleasure tour. He proposed to travel to Europe and gain exposure to Western music, art and theatre. His friend Loken Palit was going with him. He liked Loken’s company. Loken had a brilliant, analytical mind deeply sensitized to the fine arts. Rabindra’s Mejda, Satyendranath, was also travelling with them which meant that he would be saved the trouble of making arrangements and taking de
cisions. Rabindra looked forward to the delightful time ahead of him but no sooner had he reached London than he started feeling homesick. He longed to go back to Calcutta and to India. The longing changed into a sick desperation as the days went by.
England is lovely in September. The air is soft and mellow and the leaves of the trees turn russet and gold against an azure blue sky. But all this beauty eluded Rabindra’s eyes. He had no thoughts at all except for the letters that arrived regularly from Indira. Every morning, on waking up, he rushed to the letter box and was in a fever of impatience all day if he found it empty. He was equally distressed when letters came, for Indira begged him to return in every line. ‘I hate everything here,’ she wrote, ‘I can’t bear to live here any more.’
In one letter Indira threatened to stop writing if he didn’t come back immediately, and declared that she would have nothing to do with him in future. She kept her word. She didn’t write for a whole week and then sent a brief note inserted in a letter written to her father. Rabindra’s face turned pale with shock and humiliation. She had never done such a thing before. Did she really mean to sever all connection with him? The thought was too painful to bear.
That day he took a decision. He would return as soon as he could. Loken and Satyendranath were nonplussed when he told them of his intention. ‘Are you mad?’ they cried in unison. ‘We meant to spend three months here and it is only a few weeks since we’ve arrived. We haven’t seen anything of Europe yet. And everything’s well at home. You had a letter from your wife only yesterday. You said so yourself.’ But Rabindra was desperate. He had to go. He started making preparations secretly, quietly, and within six weeks of his arrival in England he started on the journey back.
Reaching Bombay he boarded a train to Calcutta. Two months and eleven days on the boat and another three days on the train! Rabindra could hardly conceal his impatience. After aeons, so it seemed to him, the train puffed its way into Howrah Station. Rabindra breathed a sigh of relief. Engaging a hackney cab he ordered the driver to drive straight to Birji Talao. In his eagerness he forgot his duty—to make his first obeisance, after his return, to his father.
The light was fading by the time the carriage entered the gate of Gyanadanandini’s house. Rabindra looked out eagerly. A young woman stood in the garden her eyes fixed on a flock of birds circling and twittering about the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. The sound of carriage wheels on the drive made her turn around. She saw a young man descending from the carriage. He was tall and handsome with a dark beard and wavy hair and he was smiling at her. She stared in wonder. Was she seeing a vision? Was this truly her Robi ka or was it a phantom wrought out of her desperate longing? The figure spread out his arms and called ‘Bibi!’ Indira forgot everything—her misery and indignation of the past and her doubt and dismay of the present—and ran like a fawn into those waiting arms …
One good thing about a bajra was that it didn’t jump about like a horse carriage. One could read and write at one’s ease. Sometimes the gentle swaying of the boat lulled one to sleep. Rabindra slept little but he dreamed many dreams. Some of them provided him with plots for his short stories. Others carried a whiff of the essence of poetry. He had started writing narrative poems these days and found himself enjoying the experience.
Evening had come. A servant entered the room with his cup of tea. Sipping delicately from the porcelain cup Rabindra looked out of the window. The sky was a riot of red and gold and so was the earth. The trees and shrubs growing by the river seemed to have shed their green and imbibed the colours of the sky. The sun was setting and the boat would soon be anchored at some village ghat to rest for the night. Even as he thought so he heard the splash of heavy metal in water and cries of ‘Careful! Careful!’ from the boatmen. Rabindra rose and, leaving his room, came up on deck. He loved looking out on the river at this hour. So many people could be seen at the ghat! Women with mud pots on their hips, men in caps making their way to a tumbledown mosque, children playing about in the water. So many sights! So many sounds! The shrill call of birds winging their way back to their nests, the quick, clear voices of mothers calling out to their children, the call of the azan, heard a thousand times yet eerie and unfamiliar. All these never failed to touch an answering chord in Rabindra’s soul.
‘We have reached Sajadpur Huzoor,’ an employee of the estate murmured. His manner implied something more. Rabindra’s brow furrowed in thought then, suddenly, he realized what it was. He had come out of his room, his torso and feet bare. But here in Sajadpur he was not a mere poet. He was Raja Babu, a zamindar. And he had to appear as one. He descended the steps quickly and entered his room
The next morning was lovely, cool and bright. Rabindra stood on the balcony of the kuthi listening to the music that came wafting over the air. It was the morning raga of Bhairavi being played on the shahnai. As the sweet, poignant strains entered his ears he felt his heart twist with nostalgia. It was a familiar sensation. He often found himself assailed thus in the presence of something overwhelmingly beautiful.
Today was Punyaha, the day fixed for the landlord to commence collecting rents for the ensuing year, and his subjects could see him for the first time. Though, to tell the truth, they were not his subjects. Sajadpur lay within his uncle Girindranath’s estates. Girindranath had died many years ago when his grandsons Aban, Samar and Gagan were minors. Debendranath had looked after their property along with his own. They were adults now, but still refused to take up their responsibilities. They liked nothing better than to keep themselves within the house and idle the hours away in music and painting. Thus Rabindranath was constrained to play zamindar on their behalf.
All was in readiness for this first meeting between tenants and zamindar. The shahnai players had taken up their positions on a machan above the lion gates. Banana saplings had been planted around the mangal ghat and the front of the kuthi had been hung with garlands of bright yellow marigolds. Within, the big hall had been converted into a reception room. A chair, vast and elaborate as a throne and covered with red velvet, stood at one end. The rest of the floor was covered with coloured dhurries, bamboo mats and sacking.
Though Rabindra had toured these parts before, it was his first visit to Sajadpur as an adult. He had come here once, many years ago, with his brother Jyotirindranath. Jyoti dada, who did everything in style, had brought a large company of friends and family members, servants and maids and a band of musicians. Jyoti dada had taken him tiger shooting one day and put a gun in his hands. Rabindra had pulled the trigger at his brother’s insistence but his hand had trembled so badly that the bullet had flown wide off the mark. Rabindra was thankful for that to this day. No, hunting and shooting were not for him.
‘Huzoor!’ The manager came and stood at his elbow. ‘Your subjects are waiting. It’s time to go down’. Rabindra sighed and, going indoors, struggled into his official costume of china silk kurta and pyjamas, high turban with jewel and feather and nagras for his feet. As he walked down the steps a guard called out ponderously: ‘Of the long line of the illustrous Thakurs of Jorasanko Sreel Srijukta Rabindranath Mahimarnav …’ Rabindra felt as though he was acting a part in a play; a part he had performed often on stage and with which he was familiar. His entry into the hall was greeted with a dozen conches being blown together, the piercing sounds drowning the soft crooning of the shahnai. The assembly stood up, their hands folded in humility. As Rabindra took his seat on the false throne all the men fell to their knees and knocked their foreheads on the ground.
Events such as these invariably began with the offering of arati to the zamindar by the priest of the local temple. But this particular zamindar was a Brahmo who believed in inaugurating every auspicious occasion with prayers to the All Merciful Param Brahma. Accordingly, an Acharya came forward, read some prayers, then garlanded the zamindar and anointed his brow with sandal. The manager of the estate now took up his cue. Rising to his feet he read out a long eulogy praising the zamindar in terms that made him appear like
a god newly descended from heaven. Rabindra’s lips twitched with amusement. The innocent villagers believed every word that was being said. They thought him a real king who sat on a throne and wore silks and jewels and had the power to change their lives. Little did they know that he was as false as false could be: that he hated sitting on this throne and that his costume was hot and uncomfortable and he longed to throw it off. He had written a poem recently which ran The caged bird sat in her golden cage/the wild bird in the wood. At this moment he felt like a caged bird.
His thoughts had wandered and he came to with a start. The manager had finished his speech and was garlanding him. It was now his turn to speak; to bless the assembly and begin the Punyaha. Every year, on this occasion, one of the tenants received the zamindar’s special benediction. The idea behind this practice was to send a signal to the gathering that the zamindar was committed to nurturing and cherishing his tenants; that he took from them but he also gave. It was a symbol of his magnanimity and love. The man selected to receive the Punyaha this year was a middle-aged Muslim who appeared from his looks to be well born and wealthy. Rabindra garlanded the man and put the mark of sandal on his brow. Then he handed him his gifts—a gold chain, a new dhuti and uttariya, a big fish, a pot of curd, paan, tobacco and fruits. The man touched each item to his forehead and put it aside. Then, lying prostrate on the ground, he clutched Rabindra’s feet with both hands. Rabindra stepped back hastily but this form of salutation was customary and the man was determined to do his duty. He crawled on his chest towards the unwilling feet and placed a pouch full of gold coins on them. After this the other tenants came up with their gifts one by one. This went on for such a long time that Rabindra got quite bored. His eyes wandered away and rested on the gathering in front of him. And it was then that he noticed something odd. There were several distinctly separate groups in the room. The Hindus sat on one side—the Brahmins on spotless white sheets spread on carpets and the lower castes on cotton mats. The Muslims, who were the largest in number, sat on the other side on strips of sacking.
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