‘You are my lord,’ Nivedita whispered. ‘My king! Don’t banish me from your presence. Give me a place, a little place, at your feet.’
Vivekananda strode away from her without a word. After that no one saw him again. Night fell on the mountains and the walkers returned. But he wasn’t in the house either. The ladies were frightened but Mr Sevier assured them that all was well. Swamiji had left a note saying that his mind was disturbed and he needed seclusion. He was retreating to the hills to spend a few days in prayer and meditation. He would come back when he felt whole again.
Swamiji returned after three days. Thumping a brother disciple on the back he cried heartily, ‘Look at me! I haven’t changed a bit. I’m the same young sadhu who walked his way all over the country eating what he could find and sleeping in fields and meadows. I was in the forest for three days and I never felt better.’
But his behaviour with Nivedita did not change. He continued to snap at her and lecture her on her shortcomings for the flimsiest of reasons. And, when alone, he took to walking up and down, his steps quickening with the turmoil in his heart. Sometimes he was heard to mutter. ‘I must go away again …’
One evening he came into the garden where the Seviers sat with Joe, Olé and Margaret watching the sunset. ‘I’ve made a mistake. I must go away again,’ he announced abruptly. Five white faces looked up in shocked concern. And they saw something that they wouldn’t forget in all their lives. Swamiji stood before them, his right arm raised, forefinger pointing to the sky. And before their staring eyes his form seemed to swell and expand till, by a trick of the fading light, it hid the mountain behind him. A few seconds later everything became normal again. Swamiji stood before them just as he had always been. His face was calm and unlined and his eyes clear and bright. In the west the sun disappeared in a riot of rose, gold and pearl. And, from the east, a sickle moon slid up like a slice of silver against a sky of indigo velvet. Swamiji looked up at it for a few moments, then turning to the still staring group, he said, ‘Tonight is the second night of the new moon. It’s a special night for Muslims. Shall we make it special for us too? Come, let us hold hands under the moon and, like it, begin all over again!’
Although he didn’t address her directly Nivedita knew that his words were meant for her.
Chapter XXVII
With the pelting rains of Sravan the Padma and Gorai rivers had swelled to twice their size. Padma Boat, the family bajra of the Thakurs of Jorasanko, glided lightly and swiftly over the vast expanse of turbulent water like a wondrous bird, dazzling white and incredibly beautiful. It was so large it could be manned by only half a dozen men. Inside, it was fitted up with every luxury that could be imagined—carpets, curtains, French furniture and chandeliers of Belgian glass. It had been designed and built by Dwarkanath Thakur. Debendranath had lived in it for months together whenever life in the city had palled on him. Now his son Rabindranath occupied it, not for the purpose of touring the family estates, but for enjoying a holiday with his wife and children.
It was a lovely morning, clear and bright, with a slight nip in the air. The bajra had cast anchor in Shilaidaha by the bank of the Padma. Rabindra sat in a patch of sunlight on the deck reading H. Hudson’s Green Mansions. From time to time he looked up from his book and gazed fondly on the children as they played around him. Madhuri, Rathi, Rani, Meera and Shomi were his own. With them was his nephew Neetindra whom he had brought along. Presently Neetindra came up to him and said, ‘Robi ka! I’m trying to persuade Rathi to go ashore with me in the jolly boat and look for turtle eggs. But he refuses. He’s scared of the water.’ Rabindra’s glance rested on his eldest son. He was a boy of ten with big eyes and a shy smile. His head had been tonsured on the occasion of his Upanayan and was now covered with fine, black down.
‘Why Rathi!’ The boy’s father closed his book and came up to him. ‘Neetu tells me you’re afraid of the water. If you know swimming you have nothing to fear. I’ll tell Badan Miya to start teaching you from tomorrow.’
‘I won’t get into the water,’ the child cried out in fear. ‘The crocodiles will eat me up.’
‘Silly boy! There aren’t any crocodiles. And, even if there are, they won’t come anywhere near you. They’re afraid of humans.’
‘No Baba Moshai!’
Now Rabindra did a strange thing. Picking the boy up, he flung him into the water with a swing of his powerful arms. The other children looked on with anxious eyes and little Meera burst into tears. Some of the oarsmen came running up. But Rabindra stopped them from jumping in with a gesture. He stood on the deck, arms crossed over his chest, and watched the little black head bob up and down and the frail arms and legs thresh frantically in the water. Madhurilata clutched at her father’s hand. ‘Rathi’s drowning Baba Moshai!’ she cried. ‘He’s going under.’ Rabindra placed an affectionate hand on the girl’s head. ‘He won’t drown,’ he said smiling. ‘Just wait and watch.’
‘Let me go after him Robi ka,’ Neetindra begged. But Rabindra wouldn’t let him. After a few minutes more it seemed to him that the current was bearing Rathi away. In a split second Rabindra tossed off his banian and tucked his dhoti firmly into his waist. Diving in, he swam with powerful strokes up to the boy. He took hold of his shoulders but didn’t bring him back. ‘Watch me,’ he said releasing his grip and setting him afloat. ‘Move your legs and arms the way I’m doing. Don’t be afraid. You won’t drown.’ Half an hour later father and son returned to the bajra. ‘You’ve had your first lesson Rathi,’ Rabindra said patting his son on the head. ‘The rest will be easy.’ It was true. Rathindra learned swimming in the next two days and became so fond of it that it was difficult to get him out of the water.
Rabindra believed in the direct approach—whether it was in communicating a physical skill like swimming or teaching a language or a literature. He had no opinion of the conservative British method of imparting instruction. His own school days had been far from happy and he was determined that his children should not suffer as he had done. He did not send them to school. Instead he employed two tutors—an Englishman called Mr Lawrence to teach them English and a pandit for Sanskrit. And, whenever he found the time, he gathered them around him and told them stories from the Ramayan and Mahabharat. Then, after they had gained a degree of familiarity with the ancient epics, he read out extracts from the writing of Michael Madhusudan Datta and Bankimchandra. He knew, of course, that much of what he was reading would be quite incomprehensible to them, but he believed that the power and beauty of the language would enter their ears and, at some later date, find its way into their minds.
Rabindra had given this matter of education a great deal of thought. Some alternative method had to be found. How would it be, he thought often, if he started a school of his own? A school in which the ancient system of education, prevalent in Vedic India, could be revived. His nephew Balendra, greatly excited by the idea, was trying to persuade him to open an institution in Shantiniketan. But he wasn’t ready for it just yet.
Rabindra had come to Shilaidaha with the express intention of spending time with Mrinalini and the children. But he rarely got the opportunity of being alone with them. As in Jorasanko, there was a constant stream of visitors on Padma Boat. Surendra and Balendra came every other week. They were so fond of their Robi ka that they couldn’t be separated from him for long. But Bibi, who could easily have come with her brother, stayed away. She didn’t write either. That is—not to her Robi ka. Rabindra had heard that there was a new man in her life and that her letters were addressed to him.
Jagadish Bose was another frequent visitor. Whenever he came he demanded to hear a new story. In consequence, Rabindra was writing a lot of short stories these days. The historian Akshay Maitra, the district judge of Rajshahi Loken Palit, and the Deputy Magistrate of Kushthia Dwijendralal Roy, were also to be seen quite often on Padma Boat. It was a happy time for Rabindranath and the days passed by as lightly as though they had wings. In the evenings the friends sat together o
n the deck enjoying the cool breeze that blew up from the river and the delicious snacks Mrinalini prepared in her kitchen. For, here on Padma Boat, as in Jorasanko, Mrinalini kept herself occupied with cooking and serving her husband, children and guests.
When alone, Rabindra made up for lost time by writing feverishly. Poems, stories and prose pieces emerged from his pen in an unending stream. The only thing he wasn’t writing these days was letters. The epistolary phase with Bibi was over. Now he only answered the odd letter she wrote. Or anyone else wrote.
One day he received a strange communication.
Hé Manavshrestha, it ran, I have received you within my soul as a husband and lover. Yet I shall never expose myself before your eyes or ask anything of you. That was all. Rabindra turned it over in his hand wondering where it had come from. There was no signature and no address. He read the letter again. This time the warm blood rose up in a wave suffusing his face and neck. His lips softened in a smile. It was clear that he had a secret admirer and that it was a woman—a young woman. The thought filled him with elation. He folded the letter and put it carefully away. A similar epistle arrived the next week. And the week after. Gradually they fell into a pattern. Every three or four days a letter arrived conveying the emotions of a young woman who had surrendered her soul to this ‘man among men’ but asked for nothing in return.
One day Rabindra received a letter from Gyanadanandini informing him that Bibi was to be wed. The prospective groom was Jogeshchandra Chowdhury. Bibi had given her consent to the match and, if Robi had no objection, she would like to set the date as early as possible. Jogesh? Rabindra was startled. Jogesh and Pramatha Chowdhury were Pratibha’s brothers-in-law and Bibi’s suitors. But, from what he had heard, Bibi had set her heart on Pramatha. Of course Jogesh was the more eligible of the two. They were both barristers but Pramatha, though sensitive and articulate, was briefless whereas Jogesh had a flourishing practice. But, as he saw it, it was Bibi’s choice entirely and he lost no time in conveying his approval.
But, despite prolonged negotiations, the marriage could not take place. Gyanadanandini had several conditions one of which was unacceptable to Jogesh. She wanted him to leave his family and make his home with her. This he refused outright. He had a proud, independent spirit and he would brook no interference in his personal life. With the breaking of the match a bitter feud ensued between the two families. Gyanadanandini had never been so humiliated in her life. She gave vent to her indignation constantly and freely and poor Bibi, overwhelmed with guilt at having brought her mother to this pass, shed many bitter tears in private.
One day Sarala came to see Bibi. ‘What sort of a girl are you?’ she demanded in her forthright way. ‘You love one brother and you agreed to marry the other! How do you think you would have felt living in the same house? Could you have looked upon Pramatha as a brother-in-law? You’re lucky the proposal fell through. Now do something and do it quickly. Tell Mejo Mami the truth.’
‘I can’t,’ Bibi faltered helplessly. ‘Can a girl raise her eyes to her mother’s and tell her she is in love? Has anyone ever heard of such a thing in our society?’
‘There’s always a first time. And a girl like you should set a precedence. If you can write twenty-page letters to a man addressing him as Mon Ami you can surely tell your mother you’re in love.’ She looked sharply into Bibi’s face. The girl’s cheeks were stained a rich crimson and there was a glint of tears in her fine dark eyes. ‘Well,’ Sarala continued in a softened tone, ‘If you can’t—I’ll do it for you. I’ll tell Mejo Mami you care for Pramatha.’
Sarala was as good as her word. Encountering her aunt she poured out the whole story. She had expected resistance; even angry denial. But, strangely enough, Gyanadanandini’s response was entirely favourable. She had no objection, she said, to Bibi’s marrying Pramatha. But her condition remained. She wouldn’t send her only daughter to live among strangers. Her son-in-law must make his home with her.
Pramatha, whose hopes of marrying the girl of his dreams had been severely dashed by his own brother, lost no time in agreeing to Gyanadanandini’s condition. But the Chowdhury family rejected the proposal outright. They had never heard anything so ridiculous in all their lives. Two brothers vying for the same girl! Why? Was there a dearth of girls in the country? Gyanadanandini was in a quandary. She had been told by Sarala that Bibi had set her heart on Pramatha and had vowed to remain a spinster all her life if she couldn’t marry him.
One day Jyotirindranath came to Shilaidaha—not for any work of his own but as ambassador for his Mejo Bouthan. He was so changed that, leave alone the subjects, even the officials of the estate could not recognize him. The complexion of beaten gold that could once have invoked the envy of the gods had darkened and dulled to a tarnished copper and the flashing dark eyes had burned themselves out and were now the colour of ashes. He stooped a little and his voice, when he spoke, quavered a bit like an old man’s. ‘We need your help Robi,’ he said to his brother. ‘Mejo Bouthan will feel extremely humiliated if this marriage does not take place. Pramatha’s eldest brother Ashutosh is a friend of yours. Use your influence with him.’ Rabindra sat silent, for a few moments, looking down at his feet. He found it difficult to look into his Natunda’s eyes. They brought back memories of Natun Bouthan and the old sense of guilt. Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted a part in what was going on. The whole thing was a mess. Mejo Bouthan was far too arrogant! As for Bibi-she should have expressed her true feelings right from the start. Had Jogesh agreed to live in the house in Baliganj she would have been married to him by now, wouldn’t she? It was quite natural for the Chowdhurys to feel resentful.
Rabindra refused to go back to Calcutta and sort the problem out despite Jyotirindra’s repeated requests. But he agreed to write to Ashutosh and he did so—a twenty-page letter explaining the circumstances. Jyotirindra carried the letter back with him and showed it to his Mejo Bouthan and her daughter before posting it. But Rabindra’s efforts yielded no results. The Chowdhurys were determined to keep the daughter of the high-nosed Gyanadanandini Devi out of their family. Pramatha, on the other hand, was determined to marry her. He told his prospective mother-in-law that he would do so even at the cost of breaking with them.
Which was what happened. Gyanadanandini emerged from the battle, scathed but triumphant. Her beautiful, brilliant daughter would marry the man she loved. But she wouldn’t cover her head and serve her husband’s family like an ordinary Hindu wife. She would have a home, near her mother’s, where she would live like a queen. She would have every comfort, every luxury she was accustomed to even if her husband earned little or nothing. Her mother would look after them.
The date for the wedding was set in March. Indira would be a spring bride.
Chapter XXVIII
The shy wild flower of Nadiya, Bansantamanjari was an accomplished equestrian these days. She could be seen riding side saddle on a white mare, this cool spring morning, beside Dwarika’s dappled roan. Her head was bared to the sun and wind and she sat her horse as light as a feather, unlike Dwarika whose horse panted and sweated beneath his weight. From time to time she urged the mare into a gallop and shot ahead of her husband with a laugh: ‘I must have been a Rajputani in my previous birth,’ she cried, ‘I feel I’ve been riding all my life.’ This, of course, was not Rajputana but the Punjab. Dwarika and Basantamanjari had come a long way.
From Rawalpindi to Muree and onwards … till they reached a village called Baramullah, by the bank of a river. Although Basantamanjari’s enthusiasm for riding had not waned Dwarika had had enough of it and he welcomed a rest. From Baramullah they could take the water way to the valley of Kashmir. The boats here were as large as bajras and fitted with every comfort including a kitchen which served excellent food. The river was fast flowing and full of currents and the boat Dwarika had chosen skimmed lightly over the jade green water. The scenery on both sides of the river was breathtaking. They passed mountains, covered with dark virgin forests, rising
into the bluest of blue skies over which flocks of white birds flew in graceful formations. There were snow peaks in the distance on which the soft orange and gold of a sunrise or sunset poured itself in a stream of unearthly light. In the deepening shadows of dusk, the sky took on the most delicate hues ranging from the palest mauve to the deepest purple. And when the moon rose in the ink-blue sky, throwing long shafts of silver on the trembling water, Basantamanjari couldn’t keep her happiness to herself but had to express it in song. Sitting on the deck, in a shower of moonbeams, she sang one song after another stopping only when the moon had set and the night was over.
One afternoon, as the boat cut its way through the green gold water the oars splashing softly against the silence of sky and mountains, Basantamanjari rose suddenly from her place on the deck and pointed a finger in the direction of the bank. ‘Red hair!’ she cried in a wondering voice.
‘What was that?’ Dwarika asked startled. ‘What did you say?’ ‘There’s a woman there with hair the colour of hibiscus. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
Dwarika looked in the direction of the pointing finger. A large boat had cast anchor near the bank and, on its deck, a group of people could be seen sitting around a table sipping tea from porcelain cups. Four of them were women—white women. ‘They’re foreigners,’ he explained.’ ‘They have hair of different colours. Yellow, red, brown—even white as snow.’ Then peering closer, he added, ‘There’s a man with them too I see. There he is—talking to the boatmen. Do you see him? He’s wearing a saffron robe. Since when have sahebs started dressing like sadhus?’
‘Is he a saheb too?’
‘He must be. A native would hardly be travelling with white women. And look … he’s smoking a pipe. Chha! What an insult to saffron!’
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