Jorasanko Read online

  Jorasanko

  ARUNA CHAKRAVARTI

  HarperCollins Publishers India

  To friend, guide and mentor of four decades…

  late Ramen Datta

  Contents

  Cast of Characters

  1859

  1823–1846

  1846–1866

  1864–1867

  1868–1873

  1873–1879

  1878–1881

  1883–1888

  1884–1891

  1892–1899

  1899–1902

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Cast of Characters

  The Tagores of Jorasanko

  Dwarkanath Tagore

  Digambari: Dwarkanath’s wife

  Debendranath: Dwarkanath’s eldest son

  Girindranath: Dwarkanath’s second son

  Nagendranath: Dwarkanath’s youngest son

  Sarada Sundari: Debendranath’s wife

  Jogmaya: Girindranath’s wife

  Tripura Sundari: Nagendranath’s wife

  Dwijendranath: Debendranath’s eldest son

  Satyendranath: Debendranath’s second son

  Hemendranath: Debendranath’s third son

  Birendranath: Debendranath’s fourth son

  Jyotirindranath (Natun): Debendranath’s fifth son

  Somendranath (Som): Debendranath’s sixth son

  Rabindranath (Robi): Debendranath’s youngest son

  Soudamini: Debendranath’s eldest daughter

  Sukumari: Debendranath’s second daughter

  Swarnakumari: Debendranath’s fourth daughter

  Barnakumari: Debendranath’s youngest daughter

  Satyaprasad: Soudamini’s son

  Janakinath Ghoshal: Swarnakumari’s husband

  Hiranmayi: Swarnakumari’s eldest daughter

  Sarala: Swarnakumari’s second daughter

  Urmila: Swarnakumari’s youngest daughter

  Jnanadanandini (Genu): Satyendranath’s wife

  Neepmayi: Hemendranath’s wife

  Prafullamayi: Birendranath’s wife

  Kadambari: Jyotirindranath’s wife

  Mrinalini: Rabindranath’s wife

  Surendranath: Satyendranath’s son

  Indira (Bibi): Satyendranath’s daughter

  Pratibha: Hemendranath’s daughter

  Balendranath (Bolu): Birendranath’s son

  Rathi: Rabindranath’s elder son

  Sami: Rabindranath’s younger son

  Beli: Rabindranath’s eldest daughter

  Rani: Rabindranath’s second daughter

  Meera: Rabindranath’s youngest daughter

  Ganendranath: Girindranath’s elder son

  Gunendranath (Guno): Girindranath’s younger son

  Gaganendranath: Gunendranath’s elder son

  Abanindranath: Gunendranath’s younger son

  Other Characters

  Prasanna Kumar Tagore: Debendranath’s uncle

  Ramanath Tagore: Debendranath’s uncle

  Subhankari: Sarada Sundari’s aunt

  Abhayacharan Mukhopadhyay: Jnanadanandini’s father

  Nistarini: Jnanadanandini’s mother

  Monomohan Ghosh: Satyendranath’s friend

  Mahendralal Sarkar: An eminent physician of Kolkata

  Ishwar: An old family retainer

  Bishu: The weaver’s wife

  Pyari: A serving woman

  Kal Dai: The children’s nurse

  Bini: Kadambari’s maid

  1859

  Palki chale! Heinyo! Palki chale!

  Eight bearers in yellow dhutis, red vests, brass bangles and rings dangling from their earlobes, chanted in a nasal monotone as the palanquin with the Tagore crest swayed and swung on its way to Jorasanko. Seven-year-old Genu, who had been fast asleep, woke up with a start. Lifting the velvet curtain, she peeped out curiously. Kolkata! The city of her pishi’s stories! Where the sky was always blue. Where it never rained, and singing and dancing went on day and night. Where folks were so rich they threw gold out on to the streets. But all she could see was a narrow lane, hemmed in by tall houses, and choked with carriages, wagons, bullock carts and pedestrians. The sky, what little she could see of it, was dun coloured and hazy. Drivers cursed from the tops of phaetons and, swinging string whips in the air, struck the bony ribs and flanks of tired horses. Babus looked out of coach windows and spat streams of betel juice at the dirty walls on either side. Heaps of rubbish lay everywhere and a terrible stench of rot and urine filled the air.

  Genu pinched her nose with her fingers. Tears rose in her eyes. What place was this? This was not the city of her dreams. Where were the singers and dancers? Where was the gold?

  ‘Drop the curtain, Bou Rani,’ Pyari Dasi, the serving woman sitting next to her, hissed in her ear. ‘Pull your ghumta lower and don’t fidget. We’ll be reaching in a few minutes.’

  Meanwhile, hectic preparations were on in the Tagore mansion of Jorasanko. The steward of the household stood at the vast gates opening out on to the road, shouting orders in a voice turned hoarse already, and servants ran hither and thither at his bidding. Men, women and children, eager to catch a glimpse of the bridal procession, had started gathering on either side. The clamour of pipes and kettledrums deafened the neighbourhood, and the delicious aroma of ghee, sugar and spices rose from the cooking pits. Satyendranath was bringing his bride home today and all the members of the extended family, friends, and important men of the city had been invited. In the women’s quarters, the abarodh, all was in readiness for the bridal welcome thanks to the efforts of the boy’s aunt, Tripura Sundari, and his ten-year-old sister Soudamini. The vast courtyard that stood between the abarodh and the baar mahal, where the men held court and carried on their business, was covered with alpana. On a large wicker tray, all the ingredients required for the badhu baran, the ceremonial welcome of the bride to her husband’s home, had been meticulously arranged and the clay pot of milk, on its fire of chaff, was being duly restrained from boiling over till the appropriate moment. Sarada Sundari, stiff and uncomfortable in a gold-encrusted Benarasi sari and quantities of heavy jewellery, sat waiting for her daughter-in-law.

  A commotion at the gates and cries of ‘They’re here, they’re here. Can’t you see the palki? There’s Kartamoshai and his son in the phaeton!’ sent the women bustling to their tasks. A burst of ululation and conch blowing rose from the abarodh, drowning the cries of the crowd. Sarada rose to her feet. Soudamini pushed the bunch of jute stalks that the efficient Tripura Sundari had kept in readiness into the burning chaff. The phaeton that carried the bridegroom and his father, and the carriages that followed, had stopped at the gates and the menfolk had stepped out. But the bride’s palki was carried right into the courtyard where the women waited. Genu felt herself being lifted out. At that moment, someone pulled back her ghumta, the end of the sari that came over her face like a veil, and she saw the woman against whose copious bosom she lay – a very fair, obese woman with a square jaw and domed forehead. She knew, without being told, that this was her mother-in-law. For some reason Genu burst into tears. ‘Why do you weep child?’ Tripura Sundari soothed her. ‘See! The milk is boiling over. That shows you’ll bring prosperity to the family.’ Then, turning to Sarada, she said, ‘Come, didi. Take the baran dala and welcome your daughter-in-law.’

  Now Genu’s mother-in-law took her through the motions of the badhu baran. She put a live fish in her hand, honey in her mouth and a gold-encrusted iron bangle on her left wrist. Then, pulling off a heavy necklace of gold and rubies from her own neck, she passed it over Genu’s head, blessed her and kissed her forehead. But, a few minutes later, the girl heard her scolding Pyari dasi in a harsh whisper, ‘Were all the Pirali girls of Jesso
re dead that you had to pick this bag of bones? O ma go! She weighs no more than a bird. Catch me sending you to a bride viewing ever again.’ Pyari dasi began defending herself with spirit but Genu, surrounded by innumerable women clamouring to give her their blessings, couldn’t hear her.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Tripura Sundari hissed behind her ghumta and pushed the women aside. ‘The father-in-law first. Then the husband’s uncles and elder brother. Then the rest of you.’ The crowd around Genu melted away at these words and a tall, fair, portly man in a velvet jobba stood before her. Genu, who had heard her mother-in-law’s comments, started sobbing again. The man looked up in surprise and asked in a deep, sonorous voice, ‘Why is she crying?’

  ‘She’s missing her mother,’ Soudamini replied.

  ‘Tell her I’ll send her home whenever she wants to go.’ Putting five gold akhbari mohurs in her hand, he blessed her and took his leave.

  ‘What a cunning girl!’ one of the women whispered to another loud enough for the little bride to hear. ‘Starts crying the moment her father-in-law comes to bless her. Now she can go to her mother’s house whenever she wants.’

  Genu was half dead by the time the rituals of the badhu baran ended. But her ordeal wasn’t over. Tradition demanded that the new bride set foot in every room of the house. It was a symbolic gesture – an acceptance of her new home on her part and an acknowledgement of her as a legitimate member by her new family. Weighed down by her heavy sari and jewellery she was half led, half carried through innumerable dim rooms and galleries, halls, balconies and stairwells. Why did people live in houses like these? Big houses only made your feet ache. She thought nostalgically of the home she had left behind. The three big, airy rooms with their thatched roofs and earth-packed floors neatly swabbed with cow dung. It was so easy to go from one room to another. All you had to do was cross the veranda. There was so much light there. And how sweetly the air blew through the bamboo lattices… And the garden beyond the wall! Her father loved his garden and had planted many flowering shrubs in it. Every morning she would take a little basket and pick flowers for his puja. There were fruit trees too – mangoes and guavas and a crooked rose apple bending over the pond. She would sit for hours in a fork of the tree eating the luscious fruit that stung her mouth and stained it deep purple. Didn’t they have a pond here? Such a big house and no pond! And why did they need a water room? Seeing her stare at the rows of jars so tall they nearly touched the ceiling, her sister-in-law explained that they were filled with Ganga jal. Water carriers came every spring, when the Ganga was at its clearest, with buckets of water, slung from bamboo poles, which they poured into the jars. This was the family’s supply of drinking water, she said, and it lasted them a whole year…

  Stepping into the kitchen, where she was made to touch the vast cauldrons of food, she had the shock of her life. It was so dark and cavernous – it frightened her and she clung tightly to Soudamini. Ma go! The dozen coal fires, burning all at once, glowed like the eyes of demons, and the sweating cooks, straining mountains of rice on mats spread on the floor, appeared larger than life. Genu shuddered. Everything was so different here! She thought of the small, cosy kitchen at home where she would sit eating her muri, watching her pishi cook the most delicious meals on a couple of burning faggots. Wedges of flat silvery chital caught fresh from the river, cooked in a delicate broth flavoured with choi root. Red-hot curries of crab and turtle meat! Genu’s mouth watered at the thought. She remembered that she had eaten hardly anything for the last two days.

  It was only a month ago that her father Abhayacharan Mukhopadhyay had sent for his family preceptor. ‘A man must give his daughter in marriage before she attains puberty,’ he had said. ‘But what is the ideal age? That which brings most merit to the father in the eyes of the gods?’

  ‘Before she completes her eighth year,’ came the solemn reply. ‘The age at which Giriraj gave Gouri away to Shiva. A gouri daan brings maximum merit to the father of a daughter in the eyes of the gods.’

  Abhayacharan breathed a sigh of relief. His tiny daughter, with the grand name of Jnanadanandini Debi, given to her by her maternal grandfather, was seven. She had entered her eighth year a few days ago. He had ample time to give her away in a gouri daan. ‘My daughter Genu is seven,’ Abhayacharan said. ‘I wish to wed her soon. What does her horoscope say?’

  ‘I have examined it carefully,’ the holy man replied. ‘That she will be married early is certain. But, let me tell you, Abhayacharan, hers is an extraordinary horoscope. In my thirty-three years of experience I haven’t seen one like it. The planets are in the best possible conjunction and will remain so for the next three decades. Her Jupiter promises to reach the eleventh house before long and her Venus is highly elevated.’

  ‘Does that mean she’ll marry well?’

  ‘She’ll marry into one of the first families of the land. She’ll have an unusual but very successful life.’

  ‘Why unusual, Guru Thakur?’

  The old man pondered the question. Then, nodding gently, he replied, ‘Unusual for a woman and… um… um… unusual considering her birth.’

  ‘Will she be happy?’ Abhaya’s voice had a plea in it.

  ‘Minor trials may come her way but her husband’s love will shield her from them. The strangest thing, Abhayacharan, is that she will achieve fame. As the wife of her husband, of course, but also in her own right.’

  A smile of relief, tinged with a dash of disbelief, appeared on Abhayacharan’s face. Guru Thakur’s prediction about Genu becoming famous in her own right sounded too good to be true. But it was heartening to hear that her trials in her husband’s home would be minor. He worried about her sometimes. She had an independent nature and a stubborn streak that led to clashes with her mother. Would her new family understand her? Picking up the almanac, he started looking up wedding dates. There were several in November and early December. After that, a gap of three and a half months. Then a flood of dates in April and May. Abhaya shook his head. He didn’t want a summer wedding. It got too hot and humid and the Kalbaisakhi storms could get really rough in these parts. Could he, possibly, meet the December deadline? He thought for a while and decided he could. He had two months in hand. With a little luck he could identify a suitable groom, conduct the negotiations and make arrangements for the wedding…

  Abhayacharan was the son of the famous Kulin, Neelkamal Mukhopadhyay, of Krishnanagar. Father and son shared several traits in common, among them a volatile temper that flared up occasionally, inciting both to say things they bitterly regretted afterwards. Years ago, after a violent altercation in the course of which his father had given him a sound thrashing with his wooden clog, Abhayacharan had left home vowing never to return. He had wandered about aimlessly for several weeks. Footsore and travel stained, he arrived one evening in the village of Dakshindihi in Jessore. Asking for a Brahmin’s house where he might find food and shelter for the night, he was directed to the dwelling of the Rais – the most respected and prosperous family of the village.

  Entering the yard he came face to face with the head of the household who looked him up and down with a shrewd appraising eye. The boy was, clearly, of high birth and lineage and had been reared with love and care. Though only nine or ten years old he had a tall strapping body and eyes which, while flashing with intelligence, held a certain innocence. Something, someone, had provoked his independent spirit and he had left home in a huff. All this the astute Brahmin surmised within the first few minutes. A little smile flickered on his lips. He liked what he saw. In fact, he felt he had discovered a gold mine. All he needed to do now was quarry the gold with care.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Agnya, Sri Abhayacharan Mukhopadhyay, son of Sri Neelkamal Mukhopadhyay, son of Om Sri…’ The boy began reeling off the names of his ancestors the way he had been taught to do.

  ‘Enough,’ Raimoshai interrupted. ‘You are from a line of Mukhuti Kulins – the highest of the high. That much is obvious. But wh
at village are you from? And why are you wandering about by yourself?’ Then, seeing the boy’s brows come together, he added quickly, ‘You needn’t tell me if you don’t wish to.’ The boy thought for a few moments; something he saw in the older man’s eyes decided him. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. Pointing to the scars the paternal clog had left on various parts of his body, he narrated the circumstances that had led him to leave his home.

  Raimoshai gave him a patient hearing. Then, wagging his long head, he said gently, ‘Fathers have to be harsh with their sons at times. It is for their own good.’ Lifting the sacred thread that lay across his chest, he recited in a high, slightly nasal voice, ‘Pita swarga, pita dharma, pita hi parama tapah. This precept comes straight from the gods. However unjust the father, the son owes him the utmost filial piety.’ A sullen expression came over the boy’s face. Raimoshai noted it with satisfaction. ‘Another thing,’ he said. ‘You are too young to be roaming about by yourself like this. Dangers lurk in every nook and corner of this world. You know nothing of them. Let me send a messenger with a letter to your father asking him to come and take you home.’

  ‘No.’ Abhayacharan stiffened and dug his heels into the ground like a stubborn ox. ‘I won’t go back, ever again.’ The old man sighed. ‘Then stay with me,’ he said, making his voice sound weary and unwilling though it was what he had wanted to say all along. ‘I’ll look after you and give you an education. You are too precious to be wasting yourself like this.’

  Abhayacharan nodded. Stooping, he touched his benefactor’s feet and sought his blessings. As the old man placed a hand on the dusty, dishevelled head, a look of triumph flashed into his eyes. Triumph tempered with caution. The plan that had formed in his head at the first sight of the boy would be accomplished. But he would have to watch his step.

  He needn’t have worried. The boy settled down happily enough with his adoptive family and, within a couple of years, Raimoshai was successful in joining him in matrimony with his nine-year-old daughter Nistarini. Abhayacharan, no longer a waif who had found shelter in the household of the Rais, was now a petted and pampered live-in son-in-law.