The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One

  The problem with Shyama was that she really loved Madhusudan; so she was afraid of putting too much strain on his temper. She had to gauge timidly if the limits of her pettishness were reaching the border of transgression. Madhusudan was also quite certain that he need not waste time or thought over Shyama. Even if her demand for love or her expenses were curtailed there was no danger. He undoubtedly had a crude attraction for her, and he was encouraged by the thought that even if he indulged in it to his heart’s content, he could still manage to keep it within restraint. If it were not so, this tie would have broken much earlier. Nothing counted for him more than work. And for his work what he needed most was control over self. Shy ama’s hold could not extend to that domain. Every time she tried to take a small step towards it, she stumbled badly. So it had been her lot only to give; she lost whenever she tried to take.

  Shyama had always been deprived of money and things and she had no end of craving for them. But even in this she had to move with care. What should have been easy to expect of such a rich man, was beyond her dreams. Madhusudan had sometimes bought her clothes and jewellery but that hardly brought her gratification. So she always nursed an impulse to pick up small objects of desire. But even that was not easy. It was a small incident like this which earned her an order of banishment. Even then, Shyama’s service and her company had become an addiction with Madhusudan as cheap and strong as the habit of chewing paan or tobacco. If he denied himself these pleasures, it might affect his work, he realized. So she got a reprieve. But it hung over her head like Damocles’s sword.

  Because of her weak hold, she was also forever apprehensive of Kumu coming back to her throne. This pang of jealousy gave her no peace of mind. She knew she could not compete with Kumu, they were not in the same playing field. Kumu’s great strength was that she was beyond Madhusudan’s control, whilst his control over Shyama was so complete that she was certainly of use to him, but of no value. Shyama had cried over this situation a great deal and often wished she were dead. She beat her breast and lamented, ‘Why did I become so cheap to him,’ but later consoled herself with the thought that the reason she could get a place at all, was because she was cheap; the dearer ones may be more desired, but the cheap ones won in the end.

  All the while that Madhusudan had not accepted her, she had not been so unhappy. She had been reconciled to her deprivation. The little that she got from time to time from the brief conversations with him seemed enough for her. But now she could not compromise between the right to have and not have. She was frightened of losing all the time. The track of her fortune was laid on such shaky ground that derailment was imminent every moment. She tried to unburden herself and get some consolation from Motir-ma, but the way she was dismissed with a violent shrug made her want to retaliate severely then and there. She knew that in the management of the household Madhusudan regarded Motir-ma as most useful, and would not tolerate any disruption there. From then on the two women had stopped talking to, and even avoided, each other. Thus Shyama’s space in the house had shrunk even more. She was comfortable nowhere.

  Then one evening, as she entered Madhusudan’s bedroom, she saw Kumu’s photograph resting on the wall. The lightning from the thunder that threatened to strike her, blinded her eyes. Her heart was a-flutter like a hooked fish. Much as she wanted she could not take her eyes off the picture. She continued to stare at it with an ashen face and clenched fists, with fire in her eyes. She wanted desperately to break or tear something apart. She feared that she might damage something in the room if she stayed in it any longer. She rushed out, threw herself on her own bed and tore the sheet into shreds.

  Night fell. The bearer announced from outside her door that the master had sent for her in his bedroom. She did not have the power to say no. She quickly got up, washed her face, put on an embroidered Dacca sari and perfumed herself. All this was in an attempt to distract him from that portrait on the wall. But unfortunately for her, the lamp was lit right in front of the picture and it seemed someone’s glowing gaze was illuminating the entire picture. That photo was the most visible object in the room. Shyama gave Madhusudan the usual pack of paan and began to press his feet. For some reason he was in a good mood that evening. He had also bought a silver photo-frame from an English shop. He gravely presented it to Shy ama, merely saying, ‘Take this.’ Even when he was being nice to her he was miserly in the matter of displaying soft emotions. Because he knew that if Shyama was indulged slightly, she lost her dignity. The frame was packed in brown paper. She opened it slowly and asked, ‘What is it for?’

  ‘Don’t you know? It is for framing photographs inside.’

  Shyama felt as if she was being lashed. She asked, ‘Whose photo do you intend to put there?’

  ‘Why, yours. The one that was taken the other day.’

  ‘I don’t need such a show of affection,’ she said and flung the frame on the floor.

  Madhusudan was taken aback. He asked, ‘What does this mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said and started crying. Then she got off the bed and began to hit her head on the floor. Madhusudan thought she was upset because the present was cheap and she had expected some expensive ornament. After a tiring and long day, he did not like this fuss. It was like an attack of hysteria—the one thing he hated most. He scolded her sternly, ‘Get up! Get up right now.’

  Shyama got up and ran out of the room. Madhusudan swore to himself. ‘This will never do,’ he muttered.

  He knew her only too well. He expected that in a little while she would come and fall at his feet and beg forgiveness. That would be the best time to firmly tell her a few home truths.

  It was ten at night, but Shyama did not turn up. Once again there were summons outside her door, ‘Maharaj is calling you.’

  Shyama said to the bearer, ‘Tell Maharaj that I am not well.’ Madhusudan fumed. ‘How audacious! She dares disobey my orders.’

  Still he expected her to turn up later. But she didn’t come. At a quarter to eleven he got up and quickly went to her room to find it in darkness. But he could make out Shyama lying on the floor. He thought it was only a ploy to demand some petting from him.

  He roared. ‘Get up and come with me. Now! None of this fussing.’ Shyama got up without a word.

  54

  THE NEXT DAY AS HE CAME UP FOR A LITTLE REST AFTER LUNCH AND BEFORE going back to work, Madhusudan found Kumu’s photograph missing. Shyama was not ready with her paan to serve him like other days. In fact, she was not around at all. She was sent for. It was evident that she was hesitating to appear before him. Madhusudan asked her, ‘Where is the photograph that used to be on my table?’

  Shyama pretended ignorance, ‘Photo? Whose photo?’

  Women generally have little regard for male intelligence, hence her pretence was a shade too obvious.

  Madhusudan said angrily, ‘Haven’t you seen it?’

  Shyama was innocence herself. She said, ‘No, I don’t seem to have.’

  Madhusudan roared again, ‘You are lying!’

  ‘Why should I lie? What use is a photo to me?’

  ‘I am warning you. Wherever you may have hidden it, go and get it!’

  ‘What a bother! How can I get a picture of yours?’

  Madhu called the bearer and ordered him to get Nabin.

  Nabin came. Madhusudan said, ‘Arrange for Borrobou to come back.’

  Shyama made a face and sat stiff like a wooden doll.

  Nabin scratched his head and said after some time, ‘Isn’t it proper for you to call on them once? If you go and ask yourself, Bourani will be very pleased.’

  Madhusudan puffed on his hookah solemnly for a while and then said, ‘All right, tomorrow is Sunday. I shall go.’

  Nabin rushed to his room and told his wife with suppressed excitement, ‘I have done something.’

  ‘Without consulting me?’

  ‘There was no time.’

  ‘Then you are sure to be in trouble.’

  ‘Possible. I
n my horoscope there is no star in the house of intelligence, only my wife. That is why I always keep you at hand. It happened like this: Dada ordered today that Bourani had to be brought back. I blurted out, “Dada, it would be much better if you went personally and raised the topic.” I didn’t know what his mood was, but he readily agreed. Since then I have been wondering what the consequences might be.’

  ‘Not at all good. From the little I saw of Bipradas Babu, I am worried about his reaction. What he might say could lead to a royal battle. Why did you get into this?’

  ‘The main reason was that my intelligence was at level zero, because you were somewhere else then. Secondly, when the other day Bourani declined to come, I guessed the real reason. Her brother had been lying ill in Kolkata all these days and her husband had not come even once to find out how he was. This hurt her deeply.’

  Motir-ma understood this in a flash and wondered why it had not struck her in the first place. She had probably, unknown to herself, some pride in her in-laws’ family. It had never occurred to her that, like everyone else, Madhusudan also had obligations towards his own in-laws.

  Nabin brought up the old debate and said sarcastically, ‘I would have never thought about it on my own had you not reminded the the other day.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You said that the obligations of relationships had priority over family pride. That gave me courage to think that even a great fellow like the Maharaj owed a visit to Bipradas Babu.’

  Motir-ma was not disposed to accept defeat. She dismissed this with, ‘How can you indulge in such useless banter at a critical time? You should now think seriously of the next step.’

  ‘You are likely to lose if you start thinking of the end at the very beginning. We should think first of the immediate step. And that is for Dada to call on Bipradas Babu. If we start thinking of the consequences from now then that may be a tribute to your power of thinking, but it would be overdoing it.’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel there will be trouble.’

  55

  THE NEXT MORNING KUMU SPENT A LONG TIME PRACTISING MUSIC WITH her brother. Our morning ragas help one’s personal sorrows to merge with eternity and become universal and through that music we escape from our bondage. Just as the mythical serpents in the matted locks of Mahadeva become his adornments, the rivers of sorrow flow into their final resting place, the ocean of sorrows. They change their features, and their restlessness is stilled in the great deep.

  Bipradas heaved a deep sigh and said, ‘In our world the immediate present is the only reality, the eternal remains always in the background. In music, the eternal comes to the fore and the trivial recedes. That is how the mind is liberated.’

  At this point the servant announced, ‘Maharaj Madhusudan is here.’

  Kumu’s face went pale in a second. Bipradas was pained at this sight and said, ‘Kumu, you go in. We may not need you after all.’

  Kumu disappeared quickly.

  Madhusudan had deliberately come without notice. He was keen not to allow them any time to hide their poverty of reception. Madhusudan believed that Bipradas secretly nursed a great sense of pride in his aristocratic descent. And Madhusudan could not bear such a thought. That was why he had come today as if it was not a visit he was paying but more like an audience he was granting them.

  Madhusudan’s strange attire was such as would overwhelm the servants. He had on a coloured floral silk waistcoat on top of a striped English shirt. A folded shawl hung over his shoulder. He wore a carefully pleated black-bordered Santipur dhoti and a pair of burnished black court shoes. His fingers were resplendent with rings bearing large diamonds and other precious stones. Encircling his spacious girth was a gold watch-chain and he held in his hand a fancy stick with a gold top shaped like an elephant’s head and decorated with precious stones.

  After some quick and half-expressed greetings he sat himself on the chair next to Bipradas’s bed and said, ‘How are you, Bipradas Babu? You look none too good.’

  Bipradas made no reply, but said, ‘You seem to be keeping well.’

  ‘Can’t say I really am, I have a slight headache towards the evening and my appetite is not good either. The slightest change in diet upsets me. But what pains me most is my insomnia.’

  An introduction to a case for whole-time care!

  Bipradas said, ‘Must be too much pressure of office work.’

  ‘Nothing unusual. Office work takes care of itself. Mr McNaughton bears most of the burden and Sir Arthur Peabody also helps me a lot.’

  The hookah and the paan came. Madhusudan picked only one cardamom and puffed the pipe a couple of times, after which he continued to hold it in his left hand. It was never used again. Snacks arrived from inside the house. He quickly protested, ‘You have to excuse me. As I told you, I have to be very particular about my food.’

  Bipradas did not ask him again. He told the servant, ‘Go and tell Pishima that our guest is not well. He will not eat.’

  Then he fell silent. Madhusudan expected that the topic of Kumu would naturally come up. So many days had gone by that Bipradas should be now showing some anxiety on his own. But he was not even mentioning Kumu. Madhusudan began to rage inside. He thought it was a mistake to have come. All this was Nabin’s doing. He wanted to go back quickly and think of some heavy punishment for his misdeed.

  Kumu entered then, dressed in a plain black-bordered sari, veiled properly like a married woman. Bipradas had never expected this. He was most surprised. She touched first her husband’s feet, then her brother’s and told Madhusudan, ‘Dada is very tired and the doctor has advised him not to talk much. You better come with me into the next room.’

  Madhusudan was red in the face. He got up quickly. The pipe slipped from his hand. He said, without even looking at Bipradas, ‘So long, I am going.’

  His first impulse was to stalk out and step into the carriage to go back home. But his heart was in a bind. He was seeing Kumu after many days. This was the first time he saw her in homely attire. She had never looked so beautiful. So cool, so easy. In his own house she was a formal person, here she belonged. Today he saw her from very close. How soothing was her presence. He wanted to take her away without any delay. He turned over in his mind again and again these words, ‘She is mine, she is mine alone, she belongs to my home, she is my treasure, she is my heart and soul.’

  So when she showed him to a sofa in the next room and asked him to sit down, he had to. If it were not so open, he would have pulled her down to sit by his side. But Kumu did not sit, she stood behind a chair with her hands resting on its arms. She asked, ‘Do you wish to say something to me?’

  He did not quite like the tone of her question. He asked, ‘Aren’t you coming home?’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  Madhusudan was startled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘You have no need for me.’

  He guessed that the Shyamasundari affair had reached her ears and assumed that his wife was sulking. He liked the idea, and said, ‘How absurd! Of course I need you. Who likes an empty house?’

  She did not feel like arguing with him but briefly reiterated, ‘I am not going back.’

  ‘How do you mean? Can a woman refuse to go to her husband’s home? ‘

  Her brief reply again was, ‘No, I am not going.’

  Madhusudan jumped up from the sofa and said, ‘What! You dare refuse to come? You will have to!’

  Kumu said nothing. Madhusudan shouted at her, ‘Do you know I can call the police and drag you home by the scruff of your neck? You think you can say “no” that easily?’

  Kumu continued to remain silent. Madhusudan raved, ‘So the tutoring has started afresh in your brother’s Noornagar school?’

  Kumu glanced once at her brother’s room and said, ‘Be quiet, do not talk so loudly.’

  ‘Do I have to care for your brother’s wishes? Do you know I can throw him out on the streets this very moment?’

  Next moment, Kumu found her b
rother standing at the door, tall, frail, pale in the face, his large eyes burning in indignation. A thick white sheet covered his body and trailed on the ground. He said, ‘Kumu, come to my room.’

  Madhusudan screamed, ‘I shall remember this arrogance of yours. I shall smash your Noornagar pride, or I shall not call myself Madhusudan.’

  Bipradas took to bed straightaway. He closed his eyes, not to sleep but out of tiredness and anxiety. Kumu sat at his head and started fanning him. After a long time, Aunt Kshema came and asked, ‘Aren’t you coming for your lunch? It is quite late in the day, Kumu.’

  Bipradas opened his eyes and said, Kumu, go for your lunch and send Kaluda to me.’

  Kumu said, ‘I beg of you, Dada. No Kaluda now. Try and sleep a little.’

  Bipradas did not say anything, looked at her with deeply pained eyes, let out a long sigh and then closed his eyes again. Kumu went out softly, leaving the door ajar.

  Soon Kalu sent word that he wanted to come. Bipradas sat up leaning on a bolster. Kalu said, ‘Our son-in-law came and left in no time. What happened? Didn’t he say anything about taking Kumu back?’

  ‘Yes he did, but Kumu said “no”.’

  Kalu was dismayed. He said, ‘What are you saying? This is disastrous for us.’

  ‘We have never been afraid of disasters. We fear dishonour.’

  ‘Then get ready. There is not much time to lose. I knew it was in your blood, and that you can’t escape it. I remember how your father lost about a couple of lakhs in defying the magistrate. It is your family hobby to march forward and bravely court disaster. At least my family does not suffer from this disability. That is why I can not bear to watch it silently. But how shall we survive?’