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Boyhood days
(An extract from Rabindranath Tagore’s Chhelebela, 1940)
Translated by Radha Chakravarty
1
I WAS born in old-time Kolkata. Raising clouds of dust, hackney carriages would speed through the city, the horses’ skeletal frames lashed by cord-whips. There were no trams, no buses, and no motorcars. Those days, life followed a leisurely pace, spared the breathless pressure of work. Having inhaled a stiff dose of tobacco, chewing paan, the babus would leave for office, some in palanquins or palkis, others in shared carriages. The well-to-do would ride carriages emblazoned with their family titles, the leather hoods overhead resembling half-drawn veils. In the coach-box rode the coachman, turban tilted at an angle, and at the back were two grooms, no less, yak-tail fly-whisks swinging from their waistband, startling the pedestrians with their street-cry: ‘Heinyo!’ Women, too shy to ride in carriages, ventured out in the stifling darkness of closed palkis. Never, in sunshine or in rain, would they shield their head with an umbrella. If a woman was seen in the long loose chemise or even shoes, she would be accused of aping the mem-sahibs, a sign of utter brazenness. If ever a woman came face to face with a man from another family, her veil would instantly descend over her countenance, down to the very tip of her nose, and she would turn her back on him, biting her tongue in shame. They went out in closed palkis, just as they lived behind closed doors at home. The wives and daughters of elite families would travel in palkis covered with an additional pall made of thick diamond-patterned linen. The palkis looked like walking graves. Accompanying the palki on foot would be a bodyguard, the darwanji, armed with a lathi. The darwans were supposed to remain stationed at the portico, guarding the main entrance to the house; to finger their beards; to deliver money to the bank and women to their paternal homes; and on auspicious days, to take the lady of the house for her holy dip in the Ganga, closed palki and all. When hawkers came to the door with their display-boxes, our darwan Shiunandan also received his share of the profits. And there was the driver of the hired carriage; if dissatisfied with the bakhra, or his share of the spoils, he would engage in a ferocious quarrel in front of the main gate. Our pehelvan or strongman, sweeper Shobharam, would from time to time contort his body to practice wrestling moves, exercise with heavy weights, pound hemp for his drink, or consume a horseradish, leaves and all, with great relish. We would go up close and scream ‘Radhey-Krishna!’ into his ear. The more he protested, throwing up his hands, the more stubbornly we persisted. This was his strategy for hearing us pronounce the names of his family deities.
The city, those days, had neither gas, nor electricity; when kerosene lamps appeared, we were amazed at their brilliance. At dusk, the attendant would go from room to room lighting castor-oil lamps. Our study was illuminated by a sej, a lamp with a double wick in a glass bowl.
In the dim, flickering light, our tutor, Mastermoshai, taught us the First Book of Pyari Sarkar. I would yawn, then become drowsy, and afterwards, rub my eyes to stay awake. I was repeatedly reminded that Mastermosahi’s other pupil, Satin, was a gem of a boy, extraordinarily serious about his studies. He would rub snuff in his eyes to ward off sleep. As for me? The less said the better. Even the terrible prospect of remaining the only illiterate dunce among all the boys would not keep me alert. At nine in the evening, half-asleep, my eyes heavy with drowsiness, I would be set free.
The narrow passage from the public area to the inner quarters of the house was screened by venetian blinds, and lit by dim lanterns suspended above. Crossing it, I felt sure I was being followed. A shiver would run down my spine. Those days, you stumbled upon ghosts and spirits in stories and rumours, in the nooks and crannies of people’s minds. Every so often, the nasal wail of the shankchunni, the nocturnal spirit, would cause some maidservant to collapse in a fainting fit. That female ghost was the most temperamental of all, and she had a weakness for fish. There was also an unknown standing figure, straddling the dense almond-tree to the west of the house, and the third floor cornice. There were many who claimed to have sighted that apparition, and no dearth of people who believed in the story. When my elder brother’s friend laughed off the matter, the servants of the house were convinced that he knew nothing about religious faith. Just wait till the spirit wrung his neck one day, that would put an end to all his learned wisdom! Those days, the air was filled with terror, which had spread its net so wide that just to place one’s feet under the table was enough to make one’s flesh crawl.
There were no water-taps, then. In the months of Magh and Phalgun, on bankhs or shoulder-borne yokes, bearers carried kolshis, rounded water-pitchers filled with water from the Ganga. Inside a dark chamber on the ground floor, in row upon row of enormous water vessels the year’s supply of drinking water would be stored. It was a well-known fact that the spirits who secretly inhabited those damp, gloomy spaces on the lower floor, had huge, gaping mouths, eyes in their chests, ears like kulos – the flat U-shaped baskets used for husking puffed rice – and feet that faced the wrong way. As I crossed those ghostly shadows to reach the private garden of the house, my heart would heave in terror, adding wings to my feet.
Those days, at high tide, the waters of the Ganga would flood the channels that lined the streets. From my grandfather’s times, a share of those waters was reserved for our pond. When the sluices were opened, the foaming tide would descend like a waterfall, with a babbling sound. The fish would try to swim against the current. Clinging to the rails of the southern balcony, I would gaze at the scene in fascination. But the days of the pond were numbered. One day, cart-loads of rubbish were thrown into it. As soon as the pond was filled up, it was as if the mirror reflecting the green shadows of the province had vanished. The almond tree remains, but there is no trace now of that ghostly spirit, though there is still space enough for him to straddle.
Now we have more light, both indoors and out.
2
THE palki belongs to my grandmother’s era. Its proportions are large and generous, cast in the royal mould. Each pole is designed for the shoulders of eight bearers. Gold bangles on their wrists, thick gold hoops on their ears, clad in red short-sleeved quilted jackets called mirjais, those bearers, with all the wealth and luxury of the bygone days, have faded away like the many-hued clouds of sunset. This palki was embellished with colourful designs, some of which have worn away. It is stained in places, the coir stuffing spilling out of the upholstery. Like a discarded item struck off from today’s inventory, it lies abandoned in a corner of the verandah outside the khatanchikhana, the ledger-room. I was then about seven or eight. I had no useful role to play in this world; and that old palki, too, had been dismissed from all forms of useful employment. That was why I felt such a deep affinity with it. As if it was an island in the sea, and on holidays, I was Robinson Crusoe, lost to the world, concealed behind the palki’s closed doors to elude the oppressive surveillance that surrounded me.
Those days, our house was full of people, and degrees of familiarity were not clearly demarcated. All around us was the hustle and bustle of male and female attendants deployed in different quarters of the household:
Pyari the maid, crossing the front yard, on her hip a dhama or large rattan basket laden with vegetables; Dukhan the bearer, fetching water from the Ganga in pitchers suspended from the bankh balanced on his shoulder; the weaver-woman, making for the inner quarters of the house, to peddle saris designed with the latest borders; Dinu the salaried goldsmith who served our family, pumping the hissing bellows in the room beside the alley, heading for the ledger-room to claim his payment from Kailash Mukhujje, the man with the quill-pen tucked behind his ear; in the courtyard, the dhunuri, fluffing the cotton stuffing of old quilts, to the clanging sound of his bow-shaped cotton-gin. And outside, the doorman Mukundalal, rolling about on the ground, practicing wrestling grips with the blind pehelwan, noisily slapping his thighs before performing twenty or twenty-five push-ups in quick succession. And a crowd of beggars waiting, hoping for their regular portion of charity.
As time advanced, the sunlight grew harsh, the bell in the portico announced the time; but inside the palki, the day refused to keep track of the passing hours. In there, it was the noontime of those bygone days, when the danka, the large kettle-drum at the palace-gate, would signal the end of the public audience, and the king would depart for his daily bath in sandalwood-scented water. One afternoon, on a holiday, my supervisors had dozed off after their daytime meal. I was alone. The immobile palki sped through the terrain of my mind, borne by loyal minions made of air. The path they traversed had been carved out from my own whims and fancies. On that route the palki travelled, to faraway lands bearing names gleaned from books. Sometimes, the journey would take the palki into deep forests, where tiger eyes gleamed, and the flesh crept in fear. With me was hunter Biswanath. Bang! went his gun, and it was all over. All was still.
Then, at some point, the palki transformed into a mayurpankhi, a magical boat shaped like a peacock. It floated on the ocean, no sign of land anywhere. In regular rhythm, the oar hit the water, splash! splash! splash! Up and down, swaying and heaving, the waves rose and fell. ‘Watch out! Watch out! Storm ahoy!’ cried the sailors. At the helm was oarsman Abdul, with his pointed beard, shaven upper lip, and bald pate. I knew him. From the river Padma, he fetched tortoise eggs and hilsa fish for Dada, my elder brother.
He told me a story once. One day late in the month of Chaitra, he was out fishing in his dinghy when there was a sudden summer thunderstorm, a kalboishakhi. It was a terrible storm; the boat was about to sink. Gripping the tow rope in his teeth, Abdul dived into the water and swam to the sandbank, tugging the boat ashore.
I did not like a story that ended so quickly. The boat didn’t even sink, and he survived so easily – this was no story at all!
‘What happened next?’ I kept prodding him.
‘What a to-do there was, then!’ he replied. ‘I found myself face-to-face with a wolf. What enormous whiskers he had! During the storm, he had climbed onto the pakur tree on the other shore, near the market. A gust of wind, and the tree fell into the Padma. Our friend the wolf was adrift in the rushing torrent. Gasping for air, he reached the sandbank and clambered ashore. As soon as I saw him, I wound my rope into a noose. The creature confronted me with the glare of his huge, bulging eyes. All that swimming had whetted his appetite. The sight of me made his bright-red tongue begin to water. He knew many folks inside out, but he didn’t know Abdul. “Come, my little one!” I called out. The moment he reared up on his hind legs, I flung the noose round his neck. The harder he struggled to free himself, the tighter the noose became, making his tongue hang out.’
‘Did he die, then, Abdul?’ I enquired anxiously, at this point.
‘No power on earth could allow him to die!’ Abdul assured me. ‘With the river in flood, I had to get back to Bahadurganj, didn’t I? Tying him to the dinghy, I got the wolf-cub to tow the boat a distance of at least twenty crosh – about ten miles. He moaned and groaned, I prodded his belly with the oar, and in an hour and a half, he’d covered the distance of a ten-to-fifteen-hour journey. Don’t ask what happened next, baba, for you will not get a reply!’
‘Very well,’ I agreed, ‘so much for the wolf. Now, tell me about the crocodile?’
‘I’ve often seen the tip of his nose jutting out above the water,’ replied Abdul. ‘Stretched out on the sloping river-shore, basking in the sun, he seems to have a hideous smile on his face. With a gun, I could take him on. But my license has expired. A funny thing happened, though. One day, Kanchi bedeni the snake-catcher was scraping split bamboo with the curved blade of her da, her baby goat tethered by her side. Sneaking up from the river, the crocodile grabbed the baby goat by the leg and began to drag it away, towards the water. In a single leap, the bedeni was astride the crocodile’s back. Using her da, she struck blow upon blow on that giant reptile’s neck. Relinquishing the baby goat, the creature sank into the water.’
‘And then?’ I cried, in agitation.
‘Reports of what happened next have sunk to the bottom of the river,’ replied Abdul. ‘It will take a long time to retrieve the information. I shall send a scout to find out what happened, and bring you the details when we meet again.’
But he hasn’t come back since. Perhaps he has gone to find out what happened.
So much for my travels within the palki. Outside the palki, I sometimes played the schoolmaster, with the verandah railings for pupils. They were silent with awe. There would be the occasional naughty ones, not interested in lessons at all. They would grow up to be coolies, I would warn them. Beaten black and blue, they would still show no sign of giving up their pranks. It wouldn’t do to let the mischief end, after all: for that would put an end to my game.
There was one more game I played, with Singhimama, my wooden lion. Tales of animal-sacrifices performed on prayer-days had convinced me that sacrificing my lion would be an event of great magnitude. Many were the blows I rained upon his neck with a twig. I had to make up the mantra, of course, for no puja is complete without that:
Singhimama, off with your head!
At Andibose’s shrine I strike you dead!
Ulkut dhulkut dum dum dum
Walnut balnut whack-whack-whack
Crack-crack-crack!
Almost all the words here were borrowed. Only ‘walnut’ was my own. I had a weakness for walnuts. From the word ‘whack,’ it will be apparent that my scimitar was made of wood. And ‘crack’ suggests that the scimitar was none too strong…
From Rabindranath Tagore, Boyhood Days, translated by Radha Chakravarty [Puffin Classics/Penguin India, 2007]
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Poetics and politics of jokes