Authors: Neel Mukherjee
‘Wait. What’s wrong? Why don’t you stay?’ The words come out paratactic, congealed.
‘No, I’ve got to go. Goodnight.’
And he was out of the door, shutting it closed after him with not so much as a scrape or a creak.
Somehow the room seemed to amplify the sounds as Ritwik, wide awake now, listened to the front door slam shut, and then the cough of ignition, once, twice, before Matthew’s Renault kicked
into its purring life. A narrow beam of car headlights swept flawlessly along the ceiling in a neat, brief arc through a crack where the curtains had not quite joined.
His heart was an eel again, doing its infinite loops around the same elegant path.
T
here it is, her name, in the respectful and prominent upper case customarily afforded to the author: VIOLET CAMERON, appended to the essay
‘Some Thoughts on Industrialization in Bengal: A Reply to Nikhilesh Roy Chowdhury’. And that juxtaposition is what stops Miss Gilby in her tracks as she is walking along the verandah,
idly leafing through this latest issue of the
Dawn
, dated October 1903. It is no secret that Violet has been a member of the Dawn Society from ’97 or ’98. In fact, Miss Gilby
collaborated with her on an essay on the education of Indian girls, which was published in these pages in ’99 along with articles by Annie Besant and by the Irish lady who went under the name
of Sister Nivedita, and which went on to have far-reaching effects in the Anglo-Indian community not the least of which was the final excommunication of both Mrs Cameron and Miss Gilby from the
society of their ‘own kind’, as James didn’t fail to point out repeatedly. But this coming together, this dialogue conducted at a distance between two people who have never met
but have heard so much of each other through her, this sudden discovery of her inadvertent role of (of what? catalyst? channel? conductor?) medium, a role she has been so comprehensively ignorant
of, this sends a thrill down her spine. It is as if all the coincidences of her worlds were chiming together in a big, resonant harmony.
She rushes into her study and takes in the article in one sitting. There are half echoes and muted soundings in Violet’s words: Miss Gilby has herself heard similar ideas from her and
has had long discussions with her about self-government and that area forbidden to women – economics. The article appears at once familiar and strange. Violet seems critical of an unthinking
and wholesale transplantation of Western industrialism to India, arguing that this will lead to similar problems faced by the West as a consequence of industrial capitalism – the stark
division of the wealthy and the poor, class conflict, the gradual erosion of moral values and traditional modes of life and living.
One has only to cast a passing glance at the reports of the various commissions and blue books, which investigated the state of industrial life in the factories, mines and workshops
between 1833 and 1842; or to read the pages of Engels’s ‘State of the Working Classes in England in 1844’ to convince oneself of the truth of the total degradation and suffering
of the English working classes brought on by the Industrial Revolution
, she has written.
The implied position of Mr Roy Chowdhury appears to be in favour of economic independence from British rule by a steady process of industrialization, which would then also become a remedy for
the growing poverty of India. Miss Gilby’s head swims in the attempt to reconstruct his position from Violet’s essay. She is so fired up with curiosity that she immediately writes a
note to him and summons Lalloo to deliver it.
Dear Mr Roy Chowdhury, Imagine my pleasant surprise when reading the latest copy of the
Dawn
, which was lying on the table in the drawing room, I discovered my friend Violet
– Mrs Violet Cameron – to be the respondent to your article in a previous issue of the same journal. Having now read Violet’s article, but missing yours, I am greatly interested
in reading it and conversing with you about such matters. Will you be so kind as to let me have the earlier issues of the journal? I gather you are very busy and occupied with a great many things
of late but would Afternoon Tea next Wednesday suit you at all? I await your reply. Yours etc.
It is during the blotting of the note that understanding dawns on her. Part of the answer has been staring her in the face for some time now and she hasn’t been able to see it. All
these meetings, this thronging of ‘Dighi Bari’ with strangers and important-looking men at all hours, these late nights, this air of resolve, conspiracy almost, of action and planning
and conference, why, Miss Gilby thinks, this is all towards social and political ends. Economic self-determination, alleviation of the country’s chronic poverty – these were the noble
aims they were working towards. Miss Gilby feels caught up in the great arc of political movements and it is not without its slight tinge of fear – what if these men are plotting a Revolution
to overthrow the Raj? Where does she stand then?
She pushes the questions away as figments of her overactive imagination, so prone to creating scenarios of disaster and calamity when there are none in the horizon. She decides to write to
Violet and chide her affectionately for not letting her know in advance of this correspondence between herself and Mr Roy Chowdhury in
Dawn
, but she doesn’t go ahead with it for she
has written to her only a week ago, besides, who knows, Violet may have written to her and the post had been delayed unreasonably, as it was so frequently. She will wait to hear from Mr Roy
Chowdhury.
Mr Roy Chowdhury’s note, in neat, firm copperplate, arrives next morning, with a pile of
Dawn
back issues going back to 1897. It is brief and warm:
I shall be delighted to take afternoon tea with you the following Wednesday. I apologize for my negligence and absence – there have been too many things demanding my attention of
late and I have been inundated by these pressing duties. If you so desire, we might even go for a ride by the river. Will you kindly let me know? Yours ever, etc.
Miss Gilby opts for the ride and sends a note with Lalloo who has evidently been instructed to wait for her reply. The rest of the morning, and a large part of the afternoon, is taken up with
Dawn
. What Miss Gilby assimilates during that time – and it is only a tiny fraction of the surging sea around her – makes her head spin. She reads about English-educated Indians
raging about the contrast between the prosperous West and destitute India, about how this is no fate-ordained thing but a deliberate tool of British policy. She learns about the premeditated
destruction of Indian handicrafts leading to an overwhelming dependence on agriculture, which in turn has been ruined by an excessive land tax. And then there was
the wealth drain in the form of
first investment and later home charges, which India was meeting only through a harmful and deceptive export surplus. India had thus been reduced to the status of supplier of raw materials and
market for British-manufactured goods.
Page after page she is taken through the need for industrialization, the promotion of technical education, demands for the government to abolish its anti-Indian tariff policy. She learns of
self-help, boycott of British goods, increasing reliance on home-produced things, all of which constitute
swadeshi
. She uses her burgeoning knowledge of Bengali to translate it as ‘of
one’s own country’, ‘native’, ‘indigenous’. She even knows its antonym:
bideshi
, foreign. She reads Bholanath Chandra’s rallying cry to dethrone
‘
King Cotton of Manchester’. It would be no crime for us to take the only but most effectual weapon of moral hostility, left us in our last extremity. Let us make use of this potent
weapon by resolving to non-consume the goods of England.
Amidst the long names of Bengali intellectuals – Satishchandra Mukherji, Jogindranath Chattopadhyay, Motilal Ghosh, Kaliprasanna Dasgupta – she notices the flash and shine of two
familiar names, Violet Cameron and Nikhilesh Roy Chowdhury, dart through the thicket of words like gleaming fish through dark reeds.
Miss Gilby feels the oppressive heaviness that comes with such a deep and total immersion in a field hitherto largely unknown to her but with it also comes, paradoxically, a liberating
lightness conferred by that very activity, for it has resulted in an intellectual endeavour that initiates the long but ultimately victorious battle with ignorance. From now on, she will involve
herself in the thick and press of this germinating revolution. No sooner has she made up her mind than another, more nebulous, feeling assails her, a feeling for which she fails to find either a
name or a phrase. She feels oddly divided, melancholy, as if her loyalties were neatly riven and have been called into question, as if two equal forces were pulling her in contrary directions. The
sense of implied betrayal she feels is already enormous.
At lesson the next day, Bimala and Miss Gilby toil over an English translation of a Rajput story – the one of Queen Padmini, reputed to be so beautiful that when she
took her early morning walks in the arbours and waterways of the palace in Chitorgarh lotus buds refused to blossom lest she put their collective splendour to shame. The Bengali is very difficult
for Miss Gilby. There are problems with the language – simultaneously both poetic and innocent, intricate and childlike – the metaphors and the idioms that don’t quite translate,
but as Bimala, slowly and surely, unfurls the story, shaking it out open from its neat, compact folds into a dazzling fabric sewn with every colour and skill imaginable, Miss Gilby falls under its
spell.
They have reached the point at which Alauddin Khilji, Emperor of Hindustan, hears of the famed beauty of Padmini, hidden away in the proud and unassailable Rajput stronghold of Chitorgarh, a
land that has stubbornly resisted the steady Muslim incursion throughout Hindustan, holding up its militant head defiant and high. The Sultan of Delhi marches towards Rajputana with five hundred
thousand soldiers, razing and laying to waste everything they pass, intent on reaching Chitorgarh and abducting Padmini by sheer, brute force. As news reaches Chitorgarh that the Muslim army is
advancing towards the town, Rana Lakshman Singh orders the seven iron gates of the town to be shut to the invaders.
Alauddin had thought it would be a child’s task to march into Chitorgarh and grab Padmini. But arriving at this hilltop town he found that just as the cage of ribs enclose and hide
the heart, in a similar way Padmini was protected by the bristling swords of the brave Rajputs, Bimala and Miss Gilby translate together. Crossing the tempestuous seas was easy compared with
crossing those seven iron gates of Chitorgarh to get to Padmini. The Pathan emperor ordered his troops to set up camp at the base of the hill.
At night, when Padmini and her husband, Rana Lakshman Singh, are taking the air on the crenellated parapets and terraces of the castle, the night air of the desert biting, the moon a
bright, bitten nail in the clear black sky, she suddenly points a finger down to the vast desert outside and exclaims with delight, ‘Rana, Rana, look at those waves! It’s magic, the sea
has arrived at our doorstep.’ The Rana replies sadly, ‘Padmini, those are not the waves of the sea but the tents of Alauddin’s army laying siege to our town.’
The following morning, the Rana sends his messenger to the Emperor. Alauddin’s wishes are simple. ‘I have no bone to pick with the Rana,’ he tells the messenger,
‘I’m here for Padmini. Hand her over and we’ll depart peacefully.’ The messenger replies, ‘Your Majesty doesn’t seem to be very familiar with our Rajput nation.
We would rather give our lives than surrender our honour.’ Alauddin interrupts, ‘The mind of the Sultan of Delhi is unswerving – Padmini or war.’ The messenger bows and
leaves.
The army of the Delhi Sultanate continues with its siege of the fortress of Chitorgarh for a year but there is no sign of the Rajputs relenting or asking for a truce. Alauddin’s
hopes of starving the besieged Rajputs have, by the turn of the year, turned to ashes. And he still hasn’t set eyes upon this fabled beauty. Meanwhile, his soldiers are getting restless and
bored: they murmur against their lot, the desert country they find themselves in, the obstinacy of these Rajput warriors, the lack of comfort and luxury they are used to in Delhi. Alauddin takes
note of this growing disenchantment and hits upon another plan to get his way.
He sends word to Rana Lakshman Singh that he will return to Delhi with his soldiers if he is granted the sight of Padmini in a mirror: just a reflection of her will satisfy him. And while
he is inside the fortress, the Rana shall be held personally responsible for the Sultan’s safety. The Rajputs agree readily to this compromise. Alauddin silently congratulates himself on his
shrewdness: never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that this race of hardy warriors could be duped so easily.
The day arrives. The Pathan Sultan bathes in rose water, adorns himself in silks, pearls and emeralds. He departs for Chitorgarh castle accompanied by two hundred of his toughest soldiers,
men who laugh at danger and death. Alauddin takes the steep, narrow road up to the fortress while his horsemen hide in the forests at the bottom of the hill. By the time he reaches the fort,
another dark, chilly desert night has descended.
Rana Bhim Singh, the queen’s brother-in-law, leads Alauddin to the white marble palace of Padmini. It is lit with thousands of candles, some of which, flickering and winking through
the latticework windows, cast shadows and grids and nets that move and seem alive.
The Sultan is seated on a gold and velvet couch. After a while he says, ‘Why the delay? Let’s have a vision of the Queen so I can depart for Delhi in peace.’ Rana Bhim
Singh removes the covering from a huge Aleppo mirror placed directly in front of the Sultan. In the depths of that glass, dark and flawless as the doe’s eyes, Padmini is reflected like the
light of a thousand suns. The Sultan cannot believe this creature is human. Incredulous, he rises out of his cushioned seat and reaches out his hands to touch this shadow in the lonely depths of
the mirror. Rana Bhim Singh cries out, ‘Beware, Sultan, don’t touch her reflection.’ From her hidden place, Padmini reaches for a heavy goblet, picks it up and hurls it towards
the mirror with all the strength in her body. The glass shatters into hundreds of little bits and her reflection instantly disappears, like the mirage that it was, with the harsh, brittle jangle of
breaking glass, leaving only the blind, dull back of the frame. Alauddin is so startled that he steps back three paces. There are only empty shards of glass everywhere, jagged points of cold light.
It is as if she was never there, as if the Sultan had dreamed everything.