Dipankar became soulful. His voice filled with a calm sadness, he said: ‘It’s Tapan I’ve been talking about Mago. It’s not the lake of Jheel that he needs, it’s “your deep ponds, loving and cool as the midnight sky” that he misses. That’s why he’s been so low. That’s why his reports have been so poor. That – and his longing for the songs of Tagore – Kuku and you singing Rabindrasangeet as the evening falls, at the cow-dust hour…’ Dipankar spoke with conviction, for he had convinced himself. Now he recited the magic words:
‘Finally my homesickness grew too great to resist…
I bow, I bow to my beautiful motherland Bengal!
To your river-banks, to your winds that cool and console;
Your plains, whose dust the sky bends down to kiss;
Your shrouded villages, that are nests of shade and peace;
Your leafy mango-woods, where the herd-boys play;
Your deep ponds, loving and cool as the midnight sky;
Your sweet-hearted women returning home with water;
I tremble in my soul and weep when I call you Mother.’
Mrs Chatterji was repeating the words together with her son. She was deeply moved. Dipankar was deeply moved.
(Not that Calcutta contained any of the above-mentioned features.)
‘That is why he weeps,’ he concluded simply.
‘But he hasn’t been weeping,’ said Mrs Chatterji. ‘Just scowling.’
‘It has been to save you and Baba pain that he does not weep in front of you. But, Ma, I swear on my life and soul that he was weeping today.’
‘Really, Dipankar,’ said Mrs Chatterji, amazed and not entirely pleased at his fervour. Then she thought of Tapan, whose Bengali really had deteriorated since he had been to Jheel; and the thought of his unhappiness overwhelmed her.
‘But which school will accept him at this stage?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that?’ said Dipankar, brushing away the insignificant objection. ‘I forgot to mention that Amit has already got St Xavier’s to agree to take him in. All that is needed is his mother’s consent… “I tremble in my soul and weep when I call you Mother,” ’ he murmured to himself again.
At the word ‘Mother’, Mrs Chatterji, good Brahmo though she was, wiped away a tear.
A thought struck her. ‘But Baba? –’ she said. She was still overcome by events – in fact she wasn’t certain she had comprehended them all. ‘This is all so sudden – and the school fees – he really was crying? And it won’t disturb his studies?’
‘Amit has agreed to coach Tapan himself if necessary,’ said Dipankar unilaterally. ‘And Kuku will teach him one Tagore song a week,’ he added. ‘And you can improve his Bengali handwriting.’
‘And you?’ asked his mother.
‘I?’ said Dipankar. ‘I? I will have no time to teach him anything, because I will be working at Grindlays from next month.’
His mother looked at him in amazement, hardly daring to believe what she had heard.
16.6
SEVEN Chatterjis and seven non-Chatterjis were seated for dinner at the long oval table in the Ballygunge house.
Luckily, Amit and Arun were not too close to each other. Both held strong opinions, Amit on some subjects, Arun on all; and Amit, being at home, would not be as reserved as he might otherwise be. The company, too, was the kind he felt comfortable in: the seven non-Chatterjis were all part of the clan by extension – or about to become so. They were Mrs Rupa Mehra and her four children, together with Pran (who was looking well) and the young German diplomat who was Kakoli’s successful suitor. Meenakshi Mehra, when in Ballygunge, was included among the Chatterji count. Old Mr Chatterji had sent a message to say he would not be able to join them.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Tapan, who had just returned from the garden. ‘Perhaps he’s tired of being tied up. Why don’t I set him free? There aren’t any other mushrooms around.’
‘What? And have him bite Hans again?’ said Mrs Chatterji. ‘No, Tapan.’
Hans was looking grave and a little bewildered.
‘Mushroom?’ asked Hans. ‘Please, what is a mushroom in this context?’
‘You may as well know,’ said Amit. ‘Since you’ve been bitten by Cuddles, you are already virtually a blood-brother to us. Or a saliva-brother. A mushroom is a young man who is sweet on Kuku. They spring up everywhere. Some carry flowers, some just moon and mope. You had better be careful when you get married to her. I wouldn’t trust any mushrooms, edible or otherwise.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Hans.
‘How is Krishnan, Kuku?’ asked Meenakshi, who had been following the conversation only partly.