Memoirs of an Indian Woman by Shudha Mazumdar Geraldine Hancock Forbes

Author:Shudha Mazumdar, Geraldine Hancock Forbes [Shudha Mazumdar, Geraldine Hancock Forbes]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History, General, Social Science, Sociology
ISBN: 9781317464860
Google: NlnrBgAAQBAJ
Publisher: Routledge
Published: 2015-03-04T01:25:01+00:00

When Didi and I sang this together we would be very near tears. The love songs also stirred me although some of the metaphors were quite beyond my comprehension. Borrowing Didi’s Gitanjali (the Song Offering) that had won Tagore a Nobel Prize, I laboriously copied the words. Pacing back and forth, I would try time and again to reproduce the melodies. As my lessons were all by ear, I found it hard to practice without the help of Didi’s little music box.

One day I was surprised to see that a very large parcel had arrived from a reputable English firm that sold musical instruments in Calcutta. I could not believe my eyes when I opened the case and found a beautiful folding organ! As I raised the lid, I caught my breath to find on an engraved plate an inscription from my husband saying “with love.” “Ooh,” I gasped, “whatever will people say when they see this inscription? Don’t you think it’s a bit too shameless?” “Not at all,” he laughed, pinching my arm, “I hope you like it. And now you can practice your songs by yourself at home.” Didi came later to test the volume and tone and teased me about the inscription. The neighbourhood was now constantly regaled with notes of the organ, and my husband and I spent many happy evenings with it.

Then followed a period of life that was cloudless and carefree, yet marred from time to time when a dark shadow seemed to fall and blot out the brightness of the day. The memory of our Pandit’s prophecy was never completely absent from my mind. I had heard that my misfortune would be averted with the advent of a baby, and I found myself desperately longing for one.

“You don’t look too well these days,” said Didi, looking at me with searching eyes. “It’s just because I always feel sick in the morning, something I eat must be disagreeing with me,” I answered. Didi was concerned and asked questions. My replies confirmed what she had suspected, and taking me under her wing, she gave much sage advice about diet and mode of life for the future. I was acutely embarrassed when I came to know about my condition, but gradually this passed and gave place to a sense of relief and shy wonder. Khokar-jhi became jubilant as she now had more responsibility than ever. She urged Didi to write to Mother immediately. “Don’t you see, the Murshidabad people must be told through Mother,” she said. “Oh, no,” I implored, “not just yet …,” for I feared I would be snatched away from this new home and separated from my husband.

Sometime in early 1914 Mother wrote to say that Father was planning to go to Europe and if he did, I should come to Calcutta before he left. As I could not delay my departure much longer, one day Khokar-jhi became frantic and the fateful letter was dispatched. Soon after, my mother-in-law arrived from Murshidabad with the family priest to perform the Panchamrita ceremony.

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