In the midst of all this, Kumudini came to Kolkata. It was like a vast ocean without a drop to quench one’s thirst. At home in Noornagar, there was something familiar in the air, in the skies.The village horizon variegated with thick forests somewhere, sand dunes elsewhere, the silver streak of the river water, the temple steeple, empty expanses, wild clumps of casuarina, the towpath on the banks—all these with their many lines and many hues, bonded the skies in a very special way, making it Kumudini’s very own. Even the sunlight there was of a special kind. It had acquired a very familiar tinge by the way it blended with everything that it spread over—the pond, the paddyfields, the cane shrubs, the brown sails of the fishing boats, the delicate new leaves of the bamboo trees, the smooth dark green of the jackfruit tree, or the pale yellow of the sand bank on the distant shore. But here in Kolkata, this all too familiar light was splintered by the hard lines of the unfamiliar roofs and walls, and looked askance at her as at a strange intruder.
Bipradas drew her close to his chair and asked, ‘Kumu, are you fretting?’ Kumudini answered with a smile, ‘Not a bit, Dada.’
‘Will you come with me to the Museum?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She said it with such eagerness, that were he not a man, Bipradas would have realized that it was not a very natural response. As a matter of fact, she would have been greatly relieved if she were excused from visiting the Museum. As she was not used to crowds she had no end of hesitation in going out. Her hands and feet got cold and she could hardly see clearly.
Bipradas taught her chess. An extraordinary player himself, he was amused at her beginner’s game. But after many days of practice, she learnt it well enough for Bipradas to be careful when playing with her. Because Kumu had no girl companion of her own age, the brother and sister grew closer, more like two brothers. He adored Sanskrit literature and Kumu took lessons in grammar diligently. As she read Kalidas’ Kumarsambhabam, she visualized Shiva in her daily prayers, Shiva the great ascetic who was the desired one of Uma’s own prayers. In her maiden thoughts Kumu’s future husband appeared bathed in divine light.
Photography was one of his hobbies, so Kumu learnt this as well. If one took a picture the other would give it meaning. Bipradas was also an ace shot. Whenever he was at the village home for some festival or the other he would indulge in target practice by floating walnuts on the pond in the backyard. He called out to her, ‘Come, why not have a try?’
Whatever was dear to her brother Kumu took care to make it her own. She learnt to play the esraj from him so well that he had to admit that he was no match for her.
Thus, coming to Kolkata she came closer to the brother whom she worshipped from her childhood.The move was worthwhile for her, Kumu was naturally lonesome. Rather like Uma of the hills who lived by the shores of the Manas Sarovar in an imaginary world of her own. One born so lonely, needed open skies and a diffused solitude; and in the midst of that she also needed at least one person whom she could revere with all her heart and soul. This distancing from the world at hand was not viewed as natural by the women around her: in fact, they thoroughly despised such an attitude. They thought it was either conceit or sheer heartlessness. So Kumudini never developed any close friendship among her companions back home.
Bipradas’s marriage was fixed when his father was alive, but the bride-to-be died of malignant fever only a couple of days before the formal rituals were to begin. The priests at Bhatpara then discovered from his horoscope that there was a long wait before the evil conjuctions in the astral house for marriage were to end. So all talk of his marriage was forgotten. Meanwhile his father died. And after that there was never any time for matchmaking in Bipradas’s home. A matchmaker came tempting them with the prospect of a huge dowry. The result was quite the contrary. The matchmaker had to leave his hookah in a hurry and beat a retreat,
9
SUBODH THE YOUNGER BROTHER USED TO WRITE REGULARLY FROM ABROAD. But lately there were long gaps. Kumu waited eagerly for the mail. This time the beawrer brought the letter straight to her. Bipradas was busy shaving in front of the mirror. Kumu ran to him, ‘Dada, a letter from Chhorda!’
He finished shaving and opened the letter with some apprehension. After he finished reading it, he crushed it hard, as if it was a source of sharp pain.
Kurnudini was alarmed, ‘Hope Chhorda has not taken ill.’
‘No, he is all right.’
‘Please tell me, what does he say in this letter?’
‘All about his studies.’
For some time now, he had not let Kumu read Subodh’s letters; instead, he used to just read out bits. This time there was not even that. And Kumu did not have the courage to ask. She fretted.
In the beginning Subodh used to be quite frugal. The sorrows of the family were still fresh in his mind. As that memory began to fade, his expenses rose. He now wrote, ‘Unless you spend generously you cannot reach the top layers of the society here, and if you cannot the whole point of having come to this country is lost.’
Bipradas had no option but to send him money telegraphically once or twice in the past. This time the demand was for a thousand pounds sterling—urgently needed.
Bipradas was stupefied. ‘How am I to get so much money ! We are straining every limb only to save enough for Kurnu’s wedding. Do I have to break into those funds? What use is Subodh’s barristership if we have to sacrifice Kurnu’s future for it!’ So ran his thoughts.
He was pacing up and down the balcony that night, unaware that Kumudini was also having a sleepless night. When it became unbearable, she ran to Bipradas, held his hand and said, ‘I beg of you, please tell me what is wrong with Chhorda. Do not keep me in the dark.’
Bipradas realized that if he suppressed the truth she would fear the worst. So he said, ‘Subodh has asked for more money and to send him any is beyond my means.’
Kumu pleaded with him, ‘May I say something if you don’t take it amiss?’
‘If it is something unreasonable I may lose my temper.’
‘No Dada, listen to me seriously . . . my mother’s ornaments . . . they are for me aren’t they . . . if that can be used.’
‘Stop it. We can’t touch your ornaments!’
‘But I can.’
‘No , you can’t, either. No more of this talk. Please go to sleep.’
The morning dawned in the city of Kolkata with the cawing of crows and the rumble of the scavenger carts. In the distance one heard the whistle of steamers or the siren of the oil mills. In front of their house a man passed by with a ladder, sticking up posters for some anti-fever pills. Two bullocks goaded heavily by the driver were running away with an empty cart and the row between a up-country woman and an Oriya Brahmin was constantly rising in pitch, over who should have the priority for taking water from the municipal hydrant. Bipradas was sitting on the balcony with the tube of the hubble-bubble in his hand. The morning papers were lying on the floor, unread.
Kumu came up and said, ‘Please don’t say “no” to me Dada.’
‘What, do you wish to interfere with my independent opinion? Do I have to say “yes” instead of “no”, call night day if you say so?’
‘No, I am only asking you to take my ornaments and put an end to your worries.’
‘This is why I call you an old woman. How could you ever think that I could take your jewellery to solve my problems?’
‘I don’t know about that, but I can’t bear to see you worrying yourself to death.’
‘My dear, the only way to end a worry is to think it through. If you try to suppress it, it will recoil on you. Be patient for a while, I shall manage something.’
The only way he could send money by the next mail was to dip into Kumu’s dowry: and that was unthinkable.
In due course Subodh’s reply came. No, he would not touch Kumu’s dowry but would suggest selling off his share of the ancestral property. He had even sent a document regarding his power of attorney in order to execute the partition and
sale.
The letter stung Bipradas to the quick. How could Subodh bring himself to write such a cruel letter? Bipradas sent for his old dewanjee.
‘Didn’t the Bhushan Rais want to take the Karimhati property on lease?’ he asked dewanjee. ‘How much were they willing to offer?’
‘Maybe up to twenty thousand,’ said the dewan.
‘Send for him, I want to settle it with him,’ said Bipradas.
His grandfather had bequeathed this property solely to him, for Bipradas was his eldest grandson, Bhushan Rai had a thriving moneylending business of over twenty to twenty-five lakhs. He was born in Karimhati, this is why he had been trying for quite some time to take a lease on his birthplace, Bipradas has been on the point of yielding in moments of financial crises. But the tenants pleaded with him saying that they could never accept Bhushan Rai as their landlord. So the proposal was aborted many times. This time Bipradas had made up his mind. He knew for certain that this was not the end of Subodh’s demands. Still he said to himself, ‘Let this lease-money be for Subodh, we will face the future when it comes.’
Dewanjee dared not address Bipradas directly. He went to Kumu and said, ‘Didi, Dada listens to you. Please ask him not to do this. It will be very wrong to go through with this.’
The entire household was very fond of Bipradas and could not bear the thought that he should give up his own rights.
It was getting late. Bipradas was engrossed in the deed documents. He had not had his bath nor eaten anything. Kumu had sent for him many times. At last he came into the house, his face drained and worn. Kumu’s heart bled at the sight of him.
After lunch he stretched out on his bed, the long pipe of the hubble-bubble in hand. Kumu sat stroking his hair and said, ‘Dada, you must not lease your property.’
Bipradas said lightly, ‘It seems you are possessed by the ghost of Sirajud-daulah, the last Nawab of Bengal. Must you impose your will always?’
‘Don’t try to avoid the issue,’ she said. Bipradas then sat up straight and Kumu had to face him. He cleared his throat choked with emotion, and said, ‘Do you know what Subodh has written? Read this.’ Kumu read the letter and covered her face with both hands and whispered, ‘My God, how could Chhorda write this.’
Bipradas said, ‘Now that he can see his property as distinct from mine, can I treat my own legacy separately? Poor boy, he lost his father early, to whom should he turn for help but me?’
Kumu could say nothing more. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks. Bipradas leaned on his bolster and closed his eyes.
Kumu stroked his feet for a while and then added, ‘But my mother’s jewellery is still there, why don’t you . . .?’
Bipradas sat up again and said, ‘Kumu darling, you have not understood the real dilemma. If Subodh now squanders your share on theatres and concerts, will I be able to forgive him ever, and will he be able to face up to anyone? Why do you inflict this punishment on him?’
10
IT WAS A CLOUDY DAY. BIPRADAS WAS NOT WELL. HE WAS BROWSING THROUGH the morning papers, wrapped in a thin quilt. Kumu’s pet cat had found itself an extra bit of the quilt and was curled up in deep sleep. Bipradas’s own impudent terrier slept near the master’s feet, occasionally grunting in its sleep.
Just then one of the matchmakers turned up.
‘Namaskar.’
‘And who may you be?’
‘Sir the masters knew me well (a lie!).You were only a child then. I am Nilmani Ghatak, the son of Gangamani Ghatak.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘I know about a good bridegroom. Worthy of your family.’
Bipradas sat up. The matchmaker named Rai Bahadur Madhusudan Ghoshal.
‘Has he a son?’
The man bit his tongue in embarrassment, ‘No sir, he is unmarried. He has amassed an enormous fortune, and now that he does not have to look after the business himself, he has turned his thoughts to matrimony.’
Bipradas silently puffed at his hubble-bubble for a while, and suddenly spoke aloud, ‘We don’t have a girl in this family to match a man of his age.’
But the man would not give up. He went on dwelling at length on the wealth of the prospective match, his comings and goings at the Governor’s court.
Bipradas remained quiet and then burst out, ‘Their ages do not tally!’
The man said, ‘Do give it a thought. I shall be back in a few days.’
Bipradas went to sleep with a deep sigh.
Kumu was about to enter the room with a cup of hot tea for her brother, but stopped on finding outside the door a tattered wet umbrella and a muddy pair of crude leather sandals like the ones sold in the Taltolla market. But much of the conversation reached her ears. The matchmaker was saying, ‘Before the year is out Rai Bahadur will become a Maharaja.This is straight from the Lieutenant Governor himself. That is why he is worried that the place for the Maharani can no longer be kept vacant. Your family astrologer is a distant relative of mine and we have seen the girl’s horoscope. It is a perfect match. There is not one girl in town whose horoscope has escaped my scrutiny. But I have yet to come across any like this. Take my word for it. This match is as good as fixed, ordained by Prajapati, the god of marriage.’
Just then Kumu’s left eyelid flickered! How mysterious are the ways of lucky omens! Kinu Acharya who read her palm on many an occasion, had predicted that one day she would be a Rajrani. The consequences of her palmcast had presented themselves on her doorstep on their own. Their family planetologist had come recently for his annual dues and he had said that in the coming month of Ashadh, the Taureans would be awarded court honours, gain income through the ladies and overcome enemies. On the adverse side it indicated illness or even the death of the spouse. Bipradas was a Taurus.
There was also some talk of occasional ill health. Last night’s cold was a clear proof. The month of Ashadh had just begun. There was no immediate worry about the illness of the spouse. So , all in all, good times were ahead.
Kumu came and sat next to him. ‘Do you have a headache?’ she asked.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Has your tea gone cold? I could not come in as you had some visitor.’
Bipradas stared at Kumu and let out a deep sigh. Fate is at its cruellest when it offers a golden chariot with wheels which do not move. Kumu was hurt at this pained look of perplexity on his face. Why was he apprehensive about this godsend? The thought that marriage has also a complication by way of personal liking, never entered her head. From her childhood she had seen her four sisters married one after the other. Theirs was a kuleen family and nothing mattered but the kul—the family credentials. They lived on, day in and day out, engrossed in their children and the rest of the family. When they were hurt they did not protest, they could never imagine that things could be different. Did a mother choose her son? He might turn out to be a good or a bad son. It was the same with husbands. God had not opened a shop for people to choose what they wanted. No one could override Fate.
At long last, her prince had arrived in disguise, having crossed the empty expanse of her bad days. Her heart echoed the sound of his chariot wheels and she was not even prepared to look beyond his mask.
She quickly went to her room and opened the almanac. It was Manorath Dwitiya—a day for the fulfilment of wishes. She called a few Brahmins among the household staff, fed them well and gave them small gifts as well. All of them blessed her and wished her to be a Rajrani with plenty of wealth and many sons.
The matchmaker came into Bipradas’s drawing room a second time. The old man entered, chanting ‘Shiva, Shiva,’ as he yawned to the snapping of fingers. This time Bipradas thought better than to dismiss him with a straight no. How could he take up this great responsibility on himself? How could he be so sure that this was not the best thing for Kumudini? He promised to give his final word the day after.
11
KUMU HARDLY HAD ANY FURNITURE IN HER ROOM. A SMALL COT ON ONE side, a clothes horse with a couple of twiste
d sarees, and a light yellow towel. Her clothes were kept in a chest made of jackwood. Under the bed, in a green painted tin box were all her toiletries for dressing up, betel nut leaves and in another box things for dressing her hair. A few books, a pen and ink and some letter paper along with a pair of her father’s slippers knitted in wool by her mother, rested on wooden racks in a niche in the wall. At the head of the bed hung a picture of Radha and Krishna together. An esraj lay propped up against the corner wall.
The evening was thick with heavy rain clouds. She had not lit the lamps yet. She sat on the wooden chest and looked out of the window, Through the rain was dimly outlined the brick-filled carcass of Kolkata like a prehistoric animal in thick armour. Some lights flickered now and then on this body. Kumu’s mind dwelt on her destined future domain, where people, houses and everything else were going to be according to her own ideals. And in the midst of it all, she herself would be established as the satilakshmi—the ideal wife and goddess, full of reverence, adoration and welfare all around. Like her own mother—who had but one deep scar in her otherwise saintly life. She lost her patience for a while at her husband’s lapse. Kumu was determined to never make that mistake herself.
She was startled out of her reverie at the sound of Bipradas’s steps,
‘Shall I light the lamp?’ she asked. ‘No, Kumu, I don’t think so,’ said Bipradas as he sat down next to her. Kumu got down to the floor and started to massage his feet gently.