As indeed there was. An hour or so later a servant came from the District Magistrate’s bungalow with a letter from his mistress. Apologizing for what had happened she explained that it was owing to the fact that her bearer had forgotten to give her Biharilal’s letter. The District Magistrate was ready to meet the District Judge and would do so gladly. To make up for the faux pas she invited them over for dinner the next day.
The letter failed to assuage the indignation that swelled in Rabindra’s breast. He felt extremely slighted. It was clear that the lady had no compunction about turning a zamindar and famous poet out of her house. It was the affront to the District Judge that she regretted. Rabindra declared he wouldn’t go but Biharilal was horrified at the idea. The magistrate’s lady had invited them; there was no question of refusing her. She would feel hurt and humiliated. ‘We are natives,’ he pointed out. ‘We can swallow our humiliation and keep a straight face. But they belong to the race of rulers. Besides, she has apologized for the misunderstanding. What more can you expect?’ It was not in Robi’s nature to wave aside other people’s wishes and stick stubbornly to his own. He obeyed his host and went but his mood was spoilt and he felt edgy and uncomfortable. Everything his host or hostess said affected him adversely. When Mrs Walls led them to her table saying, ‘You may partake of everything freely, gentlemen. There’s no beef in any of the preparations. You are Hindus and may be afraid to lose your caste,’ he thought he saw a sneer on her elegantly powdered face. He was convinced that she had not said what she had out of concern for the tastes of her guests. There was a movement going on, in many parts of the country, for the preservation of the cow. Her words, he was sure, was a snide comment on a race so barbaric as to deify an animal and make an issue out of the eating of its flesh.
Rabindra’s uneasiness increased after dinner when the insensitive though well-meaning Biharilal informed the company that his guest was a fine singer. Mr Walls was fond of music and instantly requested Rabindra to regale them with a few songs. Rabindra knew that they would neither like his singing nor understand it and he hated himself for getting into such a distasteful situation. He tried to cry off but Biharilal couldn’t understand his reluctance and pushed and prodded till he was forced to sing. His audience clapped dutifully at the end of each song much as though they were encouraging a child in his recitation of nursery rhymes.
The dreadful evening was over at last. Once home, Rabindra told Biharilal, very firmly, that he was not meeting any more British officials and made him promise not to force him. He didn’t care if he was breaking protocol. He was determined.
But Biharilal and Soudamini couldn’t live without company. Back in Cuttack their hospitality increased ten fold and, with the great poet Rabindranath Thakur in the house, a lot of parties were organized. A large reception had been held, that very evening, to which a number of people had been invited. Among the guests was Mr Hallward, Principal of Ravenshaw College. On Rabindra’s reminding him of his promise Biharilal said hastily, ‘You said you didn’t want to meet British officials. This man is an intellectual. You’re bound to like him.’
But Rabindra didn’t like him one bit. He was a monstrous hulk of a man with a face as broad and fiat and red as a slab of beef. Rabindra privately thought he looked more like a policeman than the principal of a college. From the moment Hallward entered the room he dominated the conversation as though by divine right. Rabindra, who was the chief guest and whom he had come to meet, was addressed in a booming, authoritative voice with a ‘You’re a poet are you? A Bengali poet! Why don’t you write in English?’ before being passed over in favour of other more important men of the city. Rabindra gritted his teeth at the sound of that voice. It went droning on and on, not allowing anyone else to put a word in edgeways. It was so harsh and grating and had such a peculiar intonation that Rabindra couldn’t understand half of what was being said. Rabindra had met many Englishmen and women on his two trips to England. They were courteous and pleasant and he had felt comfortable with them. What happened to the British when they came out to India? Why did they change so drastically? Or was it that the crudest, the most unpolished of the race was shipped out to the dark continent? He couldn’t find the answer.
Two topics of discussion took precedence over all others at the dinner tables of the whites these days. One was the infighting among the natives over the killing of the cow. The other was the Lieutenant Governor’s decision to dismiss juries in some districts of Bengal. This last had provoked considerable agitation and burning articles had been published by the native intelligentsia in newspapers and journals. Sipping from his glass of wine Mr Hallward addressed his host in a voice both ponderous and patronizing. ‘You are a judge yourself, Gupta. What is your opinion of the dismissal of juries?’
‘If juries are considered useful in England I see no reason why they shouldn’t be so in India. We have the same laws.’
‘Same laws!’ Hallward threw back his head in a loud guffaw.
‘Do you mean to tell me that what’s good for the English is good for the natives? The English race has a moral standard, a sense of responsibility.’
‘Don’t Indians—?’
‘Show me one native who isn’t corrupt; who doesn’t take bribes?’ Then, realizing that he was surrounded by Indians, he added quickly, ‘Present company exempted of course.’ Then, warming to his theme, he carried on, ‘I’m the principal of a college. Hundreds of Indian students pass through my hands each year. Don’t I know the Indian character? Cheats and rogues—every man jack of them! To think that they aspire to sit in judgment on white men and women. What audacity!’
Rabindra tried to protest a couple of times but his soft, low-pitched voice got totally lost in the torrent of sound that issued from the white man’s lips. He looked around for the reaction of the other guests. And, to his horror, he found some of them nodding eagerly, obviously agreeing with everything the man was saying, and the others sitting shamefacedly, their eyes on the ground. The blood rushed to Rabindra’s head and pounded in his temples. He felt sick; physically sick. A terrible fury stormed his being. These were his country men. These … these animals who sat passively while a foreigner, an interloper, abused and insulted them in their own country! That fury was still with him and wouldn’t let him rest. He paced up and down the room, ears tingling, face flaming with shame and rage. Then he made up his mind. Waking up his nephew Balendra, who had accompanied him on this trip, he ordered, ‘Start packing Bolu. We leave for Balia tomorrow. Not another night under this roof.’
Once out of Cuttack Rabindra recovered his composure. It was raining heavily in Balia; had been doing so for several days. The sight of monsoon clouds and pelting rain always did something for Rabindra. The bitterness and frustration he had brought with him were washed away and peace descended on his soul.
From Balia Rabindra went to Bhubaneswar and thence back to Cuttack via Khandagiri and Udaigiri. The sight of the fine old temples and ancient rock edicts soothed his spirit and revived his pride in his heritage. He forgot the unpleasant episode in Cuttack and forgave Biharilal and Soudamini. They were old friends of the family, he reminded himself, and patriotic at heart. Biharilal’s profession required him to interact with the British and pay them lip service and that was all he was doing.
Biharilal had also learned his lesson. This time he didn’t organize any parties or receptions. The evenings were now spent in rehearsing Balmiki Pratibha and its author was requested to inspect the production and point out its defects. Rabindra was happy to oblige. Needless to say, he had felt a thrill of pleasure when he heard that his play was being staged in Cuttack. It meant that his works were being read and his songs sung even outside Bengal. Could he dare to hope that, some day, his songs would be equated with those of Chandidas, Vidyapati, Ramprasad and Nidhu Babu? The prospect left him tingling with anticipation.
Watching the rehearsal, that first day, Rabindra noticed that Herambachandra, the young man who was playing Balmiki, was rather st
iff and awkward in his movements. He had a strong voice but it lacked flow. The others in the cast were just about passable. But the heroine, a spritely young woman called Mohilamoni, was very good indeed. Rabindra was charmed by the grace of her movements and the beauty of her voice. Her intonation was perfect and she sang spontaneously with deep feeling. He noticed another thing. She had not only rehearsed her own part to perfection, she knew everyone else’s too. Whenever one of the cast faltered she was quick to prompt.
‘You could play Balmiki if you wished,’ Rabindra said to her with a smile. ‘You seem to know all the songs.’
‘That’s true,’ Soudamini caught the drift of his words and turned upon Herambachandra. ‘What’s wrong with you Heramba?’ she cried. ‘You usually do better than this!’
‘The presence of the playwright is making me nervous,’ the young man answered ruefully. ‘Besides, the knowledge that he has played the role himself is turning my limbs to water. I have a suggestion Rabindra Babu. Why don’t you play Balmiki again? In our play, I mean. It will be a thundering success with you in the lead role. I’ll step aside gladly. I know I’m no good.’
The others looked on hopefully but Rabindra shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said firmly.’ I haven’t committed a crime by writing the play, have I? Why should I be punished by being made to act in it? I wish to sit in the audience and enjoy the performance.
Don’t feel discouraged Heramba Babu. You aren’t bad at all. You just need a little more practice.’
The rehearsals took place each evening and Rabindra attended them with clockwork regularity. Gradually he came to know all the members of the cast. He was particularly intrigued by Mohilamoni. Soudamini had told him that she was a child widow and had been confined to the women’s quarter of her father’s house till Soudamini had pulled her out of it. She enjoyed some freedom now because her father had immense respect for Biharilal and Soudamini and didn’t go against their wishes. Rabindra caught himself thinking about her a good deal. He wondered what her life would be like once Biharilal was transferred out of Cuttack.
‘That boy Bharat,’ he said to his hostess suddenly one day. ‘You know the one who sits right at the back and hardly ever speaks. Is he married? If he isn’t why don’t you marry him to Mohilamoni?’
‘Marry him to Mohilamoni!’ Soudamini was startled by the idea. ‘Widows don’t get remarried in Orissa.’
‘Someone has to start. The first thing to do is to find out if the boy has the courage.’
‘Why don’t you talk to him?’
But Rabindra decided against broaching the subject directly. He sent Balendra instead with the offer of a job. They needed a clerk in the cashier’s office of the mansion in Jorasanko. Bharat was well educated and understood accounts. He would be an ideal choice.
Balendra went to Bharat’s house the next day and was amazed to find him wrapped in a gamchha swatting at a cockroach with a besom. ‘Oh! It’s you Bolu Babu,’ Bharat exclaimed on seeing him. Then, waving a hand across the room, he continued with an embarrassed smile, ‘The room is in a mess as you can see. I meant to tidy it this morning but I’ve been killing cockroaches. The place is simply ridden with insects. I killed a scorpion last night.’ The word scorpion sent a shiver down Bolu’s spine. He was a city boy and had a horror of creepy crawly things. He was sure that the spouse of the deceased scorpion was lurking nearby, getting ready to dig her poisoned fang in his ankle. He glanced quickly around the room and shifted his feet.
Bharat shed his gamchha and washed his hands. Then the two boys sat on the veranda and chatted of this and that. Balu made his offer but Bharat turned it down. He had a good job already and was not interested in going to Calcutta. ‘You’ll have to talk to him directly Robi,’ Soudamini said on hearing Bolu’s account. ‘There’s no other way.’
The next day Rabindra had a wonderful experience. It had been raining since morning, the showers falling heavy and incessant out of a sky as dark as night. Rabindra was locked up in his room reading a book called Nepalese Buddhist Literature. He was sure there would be no rehearsal that evening. Who would care to come in the pouring rain? Even thought this, he heard a woman’s voice lifted in a song whose tune was sweet and solemn and familiar—too familiar. It seemed to be coming from the long low room at the back of the house where the rehearsals were held. He rose to his feet and walked towards it. At the door he stopped short. Mohilamoni was in the room. She was standing by a window looking out into the grey expanse of sky and land. Her open hair, soft and moist as a monsoon cloud, hung to her knees. Her sari, damp with rain clung to her back and hips. She looked unreal, somehow, as she stood framed by the window like a painting done in sombre hues against a background of cloud and rain and gathering twilight. But she was singing in a human voice. It was one of Rabindra’s compositions:
‘Emono din è taarè bala jai
Emono ghana ghor barishai’*
Rabindra felt a surge of happiness pass through his soul. He gazed entranced at the picture before him. She was like the heroine of Kalidas’ Meghdoot, he thought. The universal woman grieving for her absent lover! So they might have looked—all those maidens of yore who stood by the banks of the Reba or Sipra communing with the clouds. ‘Beautiful!’ he murmured, ‘Beautiful!’
Mohilamoni turned around, sensing Rabindra’s presence. A faint blush rose in her cheeks and she lowered her eyes. ‘Why do you stop?’ Rabindra prompted gently. ‘You were singing well.’
‘I don’t know anymore.’
‘Come. I’ll teach you the rest.’
The preparations for staging of Balmiki Pratibha were under way. Invitation cards had been sent out to all the distinguished citizens of Cuttack. A pandal was being erected in the immense courtyard of the residence of the District Judge and Balendra, who had been put in charge of the stage, was busily making props. On the evening of the dress rehearsal the blow fell. Mohilamoni did not put in an appearance. Everyone was surprised. She was so regular; so dedicated. What could have happened? Could she be ill? An orderly was sent post haste to her house to find out. He came back with the news that he hadn’t been allowed to see Mohilamoni. A member of her family had met him and told him she wouldn’t be coming. He had asked for the reason but none had been given. The next day Biharilal went himself and returned his face pale with shock and disappointment. Mohilamoni had been forbidden by her father to act in the play, he told his wife and the others. It had to be cancelled. There was no way out. There were only three days left and no other girl could be trained for the part in such a short time.
Mohilamoni’s father Sudamchandra Naik was a fairly rich and well-known businessman of Cuttack. Five years ago he had married his eleven-year-old daughter to a fine boy from a good family of their own caste and status. But the illfated girl had lost her husband within two years of the marriage. The young man had gone swimming in the Mahanadi, swollen to twice her volume with the heavy rains of the monsoon, and been drowned. It was predestined, everyone said. Only those guilty of a terrible sin in their previous lives were punished with widowhood. Chastity and abstinence was the only way for them. If they followed the rules laid down by their wise ancestors rigidly and meticulously in this life, they would be able to rejoin their husbands in the next. No one gave a thought to the fact that the girl was only thirteen and hadn’t lived with her husband for a single day; hadn’t even seen him after the ceremony.
Sudamchandra, though a conservative man in general, had been fairly lenient with his daughter. He had kept a tutor for her education and a music master to teach her to sing. He had allowed her to become a member of Soudamini’s Sakhi Samiti and help her in her work. The District Judge and his wife were highly respected people in Cuttack, he told the women of his household. What harm could come to her while under their roof? Though not a Brahmo himself, he liked the Brahmos of the city. They were moral, high-minded people. They didn’t drink or keep mistresses and were cultured and polished in their speech and manners.
But associating
with a Brahmo family was one thing. Acting in a play to which the whole city was invited was quite another. Acting with men, too! On a public stage! His clan and community would spit on him if he allowed it. Folding his hands humbly before Biharilal he said, ‘Don’t make such a request Judge Saheb. I cannot grant it. Shall I push my widowed daughter on the path of perdition?’ Biharilal tried to explain to him that they were not professionals performing in a public theatre. They were just a group of like-minded people enjoying themselves together. In Jorasanko, he pointed out, the daughters and daughters-in-law of the household acted in plays along with their brothers, brothers-in-law and husbands. But Sudamchandra would not be convinced. There was no such precedence in his society. Orissa had an ancient tradition of theatre but men acted all the parts—even those of women.
But strangely, miraculously, everything changed over the next two days. Soudamini and the others had sat, sullen and downcast, listening to Biharilal’s account. The whole house seemed to be plunged in grief like a house of mourning, Then Rabindra had sighed and said, ‘So much talent is wasted in this country every day! So much unhappiness can be spared and isn’t …’ Soudamini had raised her head sharply at those words and said, ‘This is not to be borne! Why should the poor girl be thwarted and punished all her life for no fault of hers? Your idea of marrying her to Bharat is an excellent one Robi. We must see it through.’
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