Jorasanko by Aruna Chakravarti

Author:Aruna Chakravarti
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers India
Published: 2013-10-22T16:00:00+00:00

Kadambari heard Tripura’s advice but did not take it. As each day went by, her attachment to Swarna’s little girl grew in intensity till it bordered on obsession. She kept Urmila with her all the time. And, though the child had an ayah, it was Kadambari who massaged her little limbs, fed her, told her stories, sang her to sleep and watched over her like a brooding mother bird. Swarnakumari had just published her first novel, Deep Nirmaan, and its success had fired her ambition and taken it to dizzying heights. She was writing furiously these days and had time for no one. Least of all her third daughter, whose birth she had seen as an unnecessary and unwelcome interruption in her literary career. She was the first woman writer of the Tagore family and one of the firsts of the country. She was proud of that and took her role very seriously. As a result, little Urmila passed totally into Kadambari’s hands and clung to her as to a mother.

But despite her preoccupation with Urmila, Kadambari was as involved as ever in the life of her other protégée, Robi. Unlike his sister, who was writing fiction, and his brother, who was churning out play after play, Robi was immersed in writing poetry. He was reading a lot of it too, both in Bangla and in English. No one in the family, barring Kadambari, knew of this development in the boy who had earned for himself the reputation of shirker and idler. It was only when he went to Shilaidaha with Jyotirindra that the latter got an inkling of the boy’s potential. The spark that his father had discovered in Dalhousie, which had been carefully guarded and protected by his sister-in-law, was now fanned into a flame by his brother. A year after their return, Jyotirindra threw him a challenge which worked as a catalyst and turned him from a boy to an adult whose genius was recognized and respected not only by members of the family but by many outsiders.

One Sunday morning, Jyotirindranath was sitting at a table, in the room adjacent to Robi’s, checking the proofs of his latest play Sarojini. By his side sat a young man called Ram Sarbaswa, who assisted him in his work. They had two sets in front of them. Jyotirindra was reading from one and suggesting changes which Ram Sarbaswa was making in the other. Coming to the scene of the jauhar brata, in which a group of Rajput women immolate themselves on a funeral pyre, Jyotirindra shook his head with dissatisfaction. ‘It doesn’t sound right, Ram Sarbaswa,’ he muttered. ‘The prose doesn’t express the awe and horror of the scene. It’s dull and lifeless. Poetry would have worked better.’

Ram Sarbaswa nodded. ‘Would you like to rewrite it?’ he asked, adding, ‘but we have very little time.’

Jyotirindra shook his head. ‘Leave it,’ he said. He was about to continue his reading when the sound of footsteps made them both look up. Robi stood at the door.

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