An Educated Woman In Prostitution Read online

  I made my father buy me a small electric heater. Plugging it into an electric point in my study made it simpler to heat the water for the tea. When my tutor arrived the next day, I made the tea myself in his presence and offered him a cup. Accepting it joyfully, he said, ‘Seeds of advice can indeed flower if they fall on fertile ground.’ I did not realise then that I had captured his heart well before offering him that cup of tea.

  The High Court was on a long hiatus on account of the Durga Puja celebrations. My father took my stepmother on a holiday, accompanied only by a pair of servants. I was eager to go too, but I could not bring myself to tell him this, for it was obvious well beforehand that he had no intention of taking me along. I was deeply hurt. Neither my father nor my stepmother wrote to me from their travels; the only letters that came contained money for household expenses and for my aunt, who was staying with us again because my father and stepmother were away.

  One day Nanda-dada said, ‘Shall we go to the Minerva Theatre today, Maani? Let’s go, Shireen-Farhad, such a lovely opera, all those songs and dances.’ He showed me a notice for the play. When we sought permission from my aunt, she said, ‘You are children still, perhaps you should take master-moshai with you.’ Needless to say, our tutor had no objections.

  The three of us reserved a box. I was enthralled by the performance and particularly enchanted by the singing and dancing. My tutor explained every scene and character to me. Farhad’s unmatched love and Shireen’s self-sacrifice brought great joy to my heart. I felt a sleeping creature within me coming to life.

  My tutor would often take me to the theatre and the cinema; my enjoyment would not be complete without his presence, for he explained everything clearly to me. When spiritual plays like Bilwamangal or Shankaracharya were performed, my aunt would accompany us too. She was particularly fond of devotional drama.

  My father was still away from home when I was afflicted with fever. My aunt was deeply worried, while my house tutor stayed by my bed all day and night, taking care of me. From fetching the doctor to procuring medicines, from preparing my food to keeping a vigil over me, he used to perform each of these tasks; he stopped taking classes at the school where he worked. He massaged me when the pain was unbearable, and stroked my forehead so that I could sleep. He fed me grapes and pomegranates and pears with his own hands. All of this reassured my aunt to an extent.

  Every time I sought my mother, crying, I noticed him shedding tears of compassion. He knew my mother was dead, and I was neglected by my father. When I recovered after a month, I told him faintly, ‘You have saved my life, Mukul-dada.’ He said, ‘God has saved your life, Maanu.’ Taking his hand, I told him in a voice brimming with emotion, ‘I shall never be able to repay this debt of affection, Mukul-dada.’

  We began to address each other informally after this, and our hearts seemed to come closer. One day he handed me a beautifully bound slim volume of poetry, saying, ‘My book Jhorna has been published, Maanu. The opportunity I received to take care of you was so memorable that I have dedicated my first volume of poetry to you.’

  Accepting the book, I said, a little shyly, ‘You never told me you were publishing your poems, Mukul-dada.’ He smiled. ‘Is that a crime?’

  When he taught me English poetry, my tutor would translate some fragments into Bengali. So I had an inkling of his poetic sensibilities. Many of the poems in Jhorna had been written in my presence, but now that they had materialised in the form of a book, I discovered new sentiments in them.

  My father and my stepmother returned after five months, having been to Delhi, Agra, Mathura, Vrindavan, Lahore, Prayag, Kashi, Gaya and other places. He had not been to the High Court for more than two months after it had reopened; he no longer seemed inclined to continue with his legal practice, and turned his attention to taking care of the family assets.

  A distant cousin of mine came to our house to meet my father on a matter of employment. I did not recall ever meeting him before, but he came up to me and asked with utmost familiarity, ‘How are you, Maanu? Which class are you in now? Who’s teaching you at home?’ I said, ‘I’m in the Second Class at Bethune. My private tutor’s name is Mukul.’

  ‘You mean… our Mukul Banerjee… who wrote Jhorna?’ he said in surprise. ‘He’s my classmate, we studied together at Scottish Church College.’ When my tutor arrived in the afternoon, my cousin said, ‘Well Mukul, I’m told you’re teaching Maanu. I’m glad to hear that. And what are your other pursuits, besides poetry?’

  My tutor conversed with my cousin for a long time. The he turned to me and said, ‘You never told me Ramesh-babu is related to you, Maanu.’

  I said, ‘I didn’t know it myself. My father introduced us the other day.’

  Ramesh-dada said, ‘I have been here only once, about ten years ago. Manada must have been three or four then, I had just taken my entrance examinations. Then the Swadeshi movement broke out, I was caught up in it and gave up studies. Then I joined college, passed my MA examinations last year, and have been waiting for a job since then.’

  My father’s efforts resulted in an attractive position for Ramesh-dada as the head clerk of a limited company, with a monthly salary of two hundred rupees. He stayed in our house for nearly a month before shifting to a commodious room in a boarding house. To my father, he said, ‘Let me save some money first; then I shall rent a house so that I can bring my mother, wife and younger brothers and sisters to live with me.’

  My aunt had left. Ever since my mother’s death, all meals were prepared by a cook, and the household was looked after by two maids and three servants. I never lacked in daily necessities; in fact, there was a deluge of delicious foods and fine clothing; my bedroom and study were impeccably done up—all arrangements for my comfort were flawless. Still my heart would not be satiated, its demands were kept alive by my father’s indifference and neglect. When I saw working class people passing by on the streets, lovingly holding their children in their arms, I used to curse all my riches. By now I knew only too well that meeting physical needs alone did not amount to giving love—food and clothing were not a tender touch—love and affection was a matter of the heart, they went deep within with their feelings.

  On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, my father sent for me. ‘Invite your tutor and Ramesh-dada tomorrow, khuku.’ I was no longer keen on celebrating, but the day went by somehow. My stepmother gave me a gold necklace as a gift. From Ramesh-dada I received a handsome powder case of silver, and my tutor, if I remember correctly, gave me a volume of Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry.

  I had been trying my hand at writing short stories and poems. Ramesh-dada showered praises on me after reading them. ‘These are rather good, ask Mukul to have them published somewhere. They publish such rubbish from women these days.’

  Ramesh-dada accompanies us to the theatre nowadays. Nanda-dada no longer came along, for he had become engrossed in football and cricket. The poor fellow was particularly impervious to theatre and literature, and did not realise that acting involves art. He was happy as long as there were battle scenes, dancing and singing, and elaborate costumes on stage.

  A change was coming over the theatre at the time. Educated young men from cultured families joined the stage and developed its artistic elements. Ramesh-dada and Mukul-dada knew the worth of these unique artistes and complimented them generously. From Ramesh-dada I learnt the names of many actors and actresses. He told me some of their life stories, which not even Mukul-dada was aware of.

  Two years after his second entry into matrimony, my father had a son. He had completely abandoned his legal practice by now. I was exceedingly fond of my stepbrother, although I could not carry him in my arms all the time because of the ayah and the maid appointed specially to look after him. My stepmother fell ill after childbirth, which made my father inordinately anxious. Well-known doctors—both allopathic and ayurvedic—paid frequent visits. My stepmother did recover after some eight or nine months, but she did not regain her strength fully.
br />   I came to know that some of my father’s friends and my aunt had been broaching the subject of my marriage to my father. My father said, ‘I do not intend to have her marry so young. We shall see after she has passed her matriculation examination.’ It is unnecessary to record the responses of my aunt and of my father’s friends here; readers can peruse the debates and discussions raging in the newspapers on the subject.

  I had experienced my sexual awakening. In the absence of a watchful guardian, I realised only too well that an unfriendly wind was blowing in, fanning my proclivities. I even used to be desirous of marriage.

  Chapter the Third

  Running Away

  I HAD MADE THREE INTIMATE friends among the girls at Bethune College. Among them, I shall speak of Kamala in some detail, for my life was inextricably linked with hers. I no longer meet any of my childhood friends; I have forgotten most of them, but I have not yet forgotten Kamala. Perhaps she has not forgotten me either. As I write this memoir now, I recall her at every moment—all the joys and sorrows from my past are flooding back.

  Kamala was wondrously beautiful—why do I say was, she still is, possibly. On women’s beauty, the male claim is that twenty is the end of all glory. This is not applicable to all and sundry; there are many women in Hindu society who have passed another twenty years after the first twenty, but whose beauty flows like a river after the rains, as untainted as the moonlight in autumn, without a trace of a blemish. Perhaps my readers are laughing at me, who, despite being a woman herself, is attracted to the beauty of another.

  It was not just her beauty but also her qualities with which Kamala had conquered my heart. All my life I have been the recipient of her love and compassion in equal measure. She was as adept at entertainment or music or banter as she was at studies or games. Conducting the annual prize distribution at school, or any other programme for that matter, was impossible without her help. She used to teach the other girls how to sing and how to act.

  Once, a variety programme was conducted at the University Institute to raise funds for a building for a girls’ school. The students of Bethune and Diocesan joined hands to enact selected scenes from Nabina Sen’s poem Kurukshetra. I played Shailaja, and Kamala, Jaratkaru. The audience marvelled at the performance. My house tutor had composed the lyrics of two songs for me to sing as Shailaja, which Kamala had set to music. The songs expressed the pain in Shailaja’s heart at her inability to win Arjun’s heart. I still sing them sometimes for some peace of mind.

  Kamala belonged to a family of the Vaidya caste; she lived in a simple two-storied building in the Baghbazar area of Kolkata with her mother. Her father had to travel on work, and only spent a month or a fortnight intermittently at home in Kolkata. Kamala had a school-going brother who was six years younger.

  Since the house belonged to Kamala’s family, the two hundred rupees that her father sent home every month was sufficient for a comfortable life.

  I visited Kamala often at home. Her mother was a tranquil and affectionate woman who would lovingly give me many delicacies to eat. Deprived as I was of a mother’s love, I quickly grew devoted to her. ‘You’re my Kamala’s younger sister,’ she would tell me frequently. Kamala was two years older than me.

  A friend of her father’s used to live in Kashi; his efforts led to Kamala being married to a young man whom he knew. The wedding had taken place two years earlier, when Kamala was in the Third Class, just like me. The young man was employed in Kashi, where his parents also lived. Kamala would visit her husband during the summer holidays. I had read every one of the letters they exchanged—she and I would analyse their significance in secret.

  There was much ribaldry and laughter over such letters amongst the girls in our class. I had two or three other married friends, and I was privy to the mysteries of their romances with their husbands. The first words of love, the wedding night, the feigning of anger, the behaviour of men—all of these were the subjects of regular discussions among the girls. They gave me the ingredients for my poetry and short stories, which was why Mukul-dada used to say, ‘I’m getting the flavour of realism in your stories and poems, Maanu.’

  Kamala had been separated from her husband for eight or nine months. The reason was shocking; her father-in-law had been told that her mother was not her father’s legally wedded wife, but merely his mistress. Therefore he could not knowingly give an illegitimate child the status of his daughter-in-law. He had written to say that he would no longer accept Kamala in his family, and was going to get his son married again. He had also threatened to expose the scandal in the courts if Kamala sought maintenance, and would file a counter-case against her father, accusing him of deception.

  The letters that Kamala’s husband had written to her on the matter were extremely tragic. He loved her greatly, and she, too, was deeply attached to him, but this bond of love had been cruelly severed. ‘My hands are tied,’ Kamala’s husband had written. ‘I know it is not your fault, but I cannot disobey my father. Forgive me, Kamala. With dharma as my witness I took you as my wife, now it is for the sake of the same dharma that I am leaving you. Even after the agnipariksha Ramchandra had not been able to live with his tainted wife; he had had to abandon a woman like Sita. Goodbye, you will have my love forever, but not as my wife.’

  It was I who had drafted the reply for Kamala. She had no desire to respond, for she had been deeply hurt. Although she tried to forget it by keeping herself engaged in various pursuits, I could see deep into her heart. On my request and advice, what she wrote was: ‘May you remain firm in your decision, may your devotion to your father not be shaken. But you have not followed the final act of the example you cited of India’s great and ideal glory; you have forgotten Parashuram’s acts of repentance, the bed of arrows that Bhishma laid on, Ramchandra’s own lament. Parashuram had had to go on a long pilgrimage to dislodge the hatchet with which he had killed his mother; his devotion to his father had not saved him. Bhishma’s Kshatriya might was vanquished at the hands of a eunuch because of the penance of Amba, whose love he rejected. Devotion to his father didn’t save him either. Every act in this world has its own independent consequence. One person cannot obstruct another. It is not my place to give you advice, forgive me for my outspokenness. You are noble, which has enabled you to pledge your love to me even after abandoning me. But I am not—I am small and insignificant—I shall allow myself to drift on the current, I do not know where.’

  This letter of Kamala’s received a reply too. Her husband had written, ‘I have realised my folly, and when it is time to atone, I shall humbly accept my punishment. Wherever you might be then, spare a thought for this wretched man.’ It was obvious that Kamala’s husband had a heart, that he was compassionate, but enslaved by his circumstances. The rules that society has constructed prevents many hearts such as his from following their natural desires; social mores act as obstacles to the flowering of human lives.

  I did not investigate the veracity of the scandalous claims circulated about Kamala’s mother. The sun does not care for the fact that the lotus has its roots in the mud, it is happy to help the flower bloom on the water, after which the breeze makes its stalk sway, and the bee drinks its nectar.

  Kamala was a frequent visitor to our house, and my father was fond of her too. Kamala, Ramesh-dada, Mukul-dada and I would go out together from time to time. We were invited to tea at Kamala’s house occasionally; her mother may not have kept a rich man’s house, but she never neglected to look after us, preparing all the food herself.

  My father had no objection to my keeping company with anyone, without any restrictions. As I have said before, his social outlook was liberal. There was an empty field behind our house, I requested my father to have a tennis court built over there. Nanda-dada took the initiative, and every afternoon, Ramesh-dada, Mukul-dada, Nanda-dada, Kamala and I, along with some other friends, played tennis here. Mukul-dada had no idea how to play—I forced him to learn. Kamala was a skilful player, she always played against me,
with Ramesh-dada and Mukul-dada taking turns to be her partner or mine.

  My stepmother had brought a maid named Harimati from her own house; she did not have to do a maid’s work, however—she was my stepmother’s personal assistant or private secretary. Aged about forty-five or forty-six, she was probably a widow, for she was always dressed in white, and wore neither vermilion nor the bangle of a married woman, though she did have a slim single-strand flat necklace around her neck and four gold bangles on her wrists. Harimati fasted on ekadoshi, used fragrant hair oil, and chewed on paan and tobacco round the clock. And it was not as though she did not look contemptuously at the poor servants.

  Harimati had chosen a secluded corner of the house for her bedroom, which she used to carefully keep under lock and key. She would have her afternoon siesta there, and, not having any duties of her own, would attempt to supervise all the other household staff and create unnecessary trouble.

  Harimati could not stand my ways. She began with complaints against me to my stepmother, who, however, being only a little older than me, possessed neither my mother’s gravity nor her ability to discipline me. She was not brusque or irritable either; therefore she said nothing to me. Thwarted, Harimati took her complaint to my father, but met with no success there.

  Finally she proceeded to admonish me herself. One day she told me, ‘How can you behave this way, khukumoni? The neighbours are talking. It’s one thing to have a cousin or a tutor, but you have to behave like a lady with them. What is all this constant giggling and falling all over them? You are of marriageable age, you would have been a mother by now had you been married.’