The Home and the World, Rabindranath Tagore [robert munsch read aloud txt] 📗

way! Why?"

"The Rani Mother is there."

"Oh, very well. Tell your Rani Mother that Sandip Babu wants to

see her."

"That cannot be, sir. It is against orders."

I felt highly indignant. "I order you!" I said in a raised

voice.

"Go and announce me."

The fellow was somewhat taken aback at my attitude. In the

meantime I had neared the door. I was on the point of reaching

it, when he followed after me and took me by the arm saying: "No,

sir, you must not."

What! To be touched by a flunkey! I snatched away my arm and

gave the man a sounding blow. At this moment Bee came out of the

room to find the man about to insult me.

I shall never forget the picture of her wrath! That Bee is

beautiful is a discovery of my own. Most of our people would see

nothing in her. Her tall, slim figure these boors would call

"lanky". But it is just this lithesomeness of hers that I

admire--like an up-leaping fountain of life, coming direct out of

the depths of the Creator's heart. Her complexion is dark, but

it is the lustrous darkness of a sword-blade, keen and

scintillating.

"Nanku!" she commanded, as she stood in the doorway, pointing

with her finger, "leave us."

"Do not be angry with him," said I. "If it is against orders, it

is I who should retire."

Bee's voice was still trembling as she replied: "You must not go.

Come in."

It was not a request, but again a command! I followed her in,

and taking a chair fanned myself with a fan which was on the

table. Bee scribbled something with a pencil on a sheet of paper

and, summoning a servant, handed it to him saying: "Take this to

the Maharaja."

"Forgive me," I resumed. "I was unable to control myself, and

hit that man of yours.

"You served him right," said Bee.

"But it was not the poor fellow's fault, after all. He was only

obeying his orders."

Here Nikhil came in, and as he did so I left my seat with a rapid

movement and went and stood near the window with my back to the

room.

"Nanku, the guard, has insulted Sandip Babu," said Bee to Nikhil.

Nikhil seemed to be so genuinely surprised that I had to turn

round and stare at him. Even an outrageously good man fails in

keeping up his pride of truthfulness before his wife--if she be

the proper kind of woman.

"He insolently stood in the way when Sandip Babu was coming in

here," continued Bee. "He said he had orders ..."

"Whose orders?" asked Nikhil.

"How am I to know?" exclaimed Bee impatiently, her eyes brimming

over with mortification.

Nikhil sent for the man and questioned him. "It was not my

fault," Nanku repeated sullenly. "I had my orders."

"Who gave you the order?"

"The Bara Rani Mother."

We were all silent for a while. After the man had left, Bee

said: "Nanku must go!"

Nikhil remained silent. I could see that his sense of justice

would not allow this. There was no end to his qualms. But this

time he was up against a tough problem. Bee was not the woman to

take things lying down. She would have to get even with her

sister-in-law by punishing this fellow. And as Nikhil remained

silent, her eyes flashed fire. She knew not how to pour her

scorn upon her husband's feebleness of spirit. Nikhil left the

room after a while without another word.

The next day Nanku was not to be seen. On inquiry, I learnt that

he had been sent off to some other part of the estates, and that

his wages had not suffered by such transfer.

I could catch glimpses of the ravages of the storm raging over

this, behind the scenes. All I can say is, that Nikhil is a

curious creature, quite out of the common.

The upshot was, that after this Bee began to send for me to the

sitting-room, for a chat, without any contrivance, or pretence of

its being an accident. Thus from bare suggestion we came to

broad hint: the implied came to be expressed. The daughter-in-

law of a princely house lives in a starry region so remote from

the ordinary outsider that there is not even a regular road for

his approach. What a triumphal progress of Truth was this which,

gradually but persistently, thrust aside veil after veil of

obscuring custom, till at length Nature herself was laid bare.

Truth? Of course it was the truth! The attraction of man and

woman for each other is fundamental. The whole world of matter,

from the speck of dust upwards, is ranged on its side. And yet

men would keep it hidden away out of sight, behind a tissue of

words; and with home-made sanctions and prohibitions make of it a

domestic utensil. Why, it's as absurd as melting down the solar

system to make a watch-chain for one's son-in-law! [14]

When, in spite of all, reality awakes at the call of what is but

naked truth, what a gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts is

there! But can one carry on a quarrel with a storm? It never

takes the trouble to reply, it only gives a shaking.

I am enjoying the sight of this truth, as it gradually reveals

itself. These tremblings of steps, these turnings of the face,

are sweet to me: and sweet are the deceptions which deceive not

only others, but also Bee herself. When Reality has to meet the

unreal, deception is its principal weapon; for its enemies always

try to shame Reality by calling it gross, and so it needs must

hide itself, or else put on some disguise. The circumstances are

such that it dare not frankly avow: "Yes, I am gross, because I

am true. I am flesh. I am passion. I am hunger, unashamed and

cruel."

All is now clear to me. The curtain flaps, and through it I can

see the preparations for the catastrophe. The little red ribbon,

which peeps through the luxuriant masses of her hair, with its

flush of secret longing, it is the lolling tongue of the red

storm cloud. I feel the warmth of each turn of her sari,

each suggestion of her raiment, of which even the wearer may not

be fully conscious.

Bee was not conscious, because she was ashamed of the reality; to

which men have given a bad name, calling it Satan; and so it has

to steal into the garden of paradise in the guise of a snake, and

whisper secrets into the ears of man's chosen consort and make

her rebellious; then farewell to all ease; and after that comes

death!

My poor little Queen Bee is living in a dream. She knows not

which way she is treading. It would not be safe to awaken her

before the time. It is best for me to pretend to be equally

unconscious.

The other day, at dinner, she was gazing at me in a curious sort

of way, little realizing what such glances mean! As my eyes met

hers, she turned away with a flush. "You are surprised at my

appetite," I remarked. "I can hide everything, except that I am

greedy! Anyhow, why trouble to blush for me, since I am

shameless?"

This only made her colour more furiously, as she stammered: "No,

no, I was only..."

"I know," I interrupted. "Women have a weakness for greedy men;

for it is this greed of ours which gives them the upper hand.

The indulgence which I have always received at their hands has

made me all the more shameless. I do not mind your watching the

good things disappear, not one bit. I mean to enjoy every one of

them."

The other day I was reading an English book in which sex-problems

were treated in an audaciously realistic manner. I had left it

lying in the sitting-room. As I went there the next afternoon,

for something or other, I found Bee seated with this book in her

hand. When she heard my footsteps she hurriedly put it down and

placed another book over it--a volume of Mrs Hemans's poems.

"I have never been able to make out," I began, "why women are so

shy about being caught reading poetry. We men--lawyers,

mechanics, or what not--may well feel ashamed. If we must read

poetry, it should be at dead of night, within closed doors. But

you women are so akin to poesy. The Creator Himself is a lyric

poet, and Jayadeva [15] must have practised the divine art seated

at His feet."

Bee made no reply, but only blushed uncomfortably. She made as

if she would leave the room. Whereupon I protested: "No, no,

pray read on. I will just take a book I left here, and run

away." With which I took up my book from the table. "Lucky you

did not think of glancing over its pages," I continued, "or you

would have wanted to chastise me."

"Indeed! Why?" asked Bee.

"Because it is not poetry," said I. "Only blunt things, bluntly

put, without any finicking niceness. I wish Nikhil would read

it."

Bee frowned a little as she murmured: "What makes you wish that?"

"He is a man, you see, one of us. My only quarrel with him is

that he delights in a misty vision of this world. Have you not

observed how this trait of his makes him look on Swadeshi

as if it was some poem of which the metre must be kept correct at

every step? We, with the clubs of our prose, are the iconoclasts

of metre."

"What has your book to do with Swadeshi?"

"You would know if you only read it. Nikhil wants to go by made-

up maxims, in Swadeshi as in everything else; so he knocks

up against human nature at every turn, and then falls to abusing

it. He never will realize that human nature was created long

before phrases were, and will survive them too."

Bee was silent for a while and then gravely said: "Is it not a

part of human nature to try and rise superior to itself?"

I smiled inwardly. "These are not your words", I thought to

myself. "You have learnt them from Nikhil. You are a healthy

human being. Your flesh and blood have responded to the call of

reality. You are burning in every vein with life-fire--do I not

know it? How long should they keep you cool with the wet towel

of moral precepts?"

"The weak are in the majority," I said aloud. "They are

continually poisoning the ears of men by repeating these

shibboleths. Nature has denied them strength--it is thus that

they try to enfeeble others."

"We women are weak," replied Bimala. "So I suppose we must join

in the conspiracy of the weak."

"Women weak!" I exclaimed with a laugh. "Men belaud you as

delicate and fragile, so as to delude you into thinking

yourselves weak. But it is you women who are strong. Men make a

great outward show of their so-called freedom, but those who know

their inner minds are aware of their bondage. They have

manufactured scriptures with their own hands to bind