Childhood-Part 1
Ghosts and spectres
I was born in quaint Kolkata. The fly-carts clattered on, raising clouds of dust, whips of rope fell on bony horses. There were no trams, no buses, no motorcar. Work did not make one pant so much back then. Gentlemen would take long pulls of tobacco1 and go to the office while chewing on the paan, some in a palanquin, some by a shared cab. The moneyed had carriages with standards stuck on, half veiled under leather; the coachman sat on the box with his turban at an angle, his “Heigh-ho” startling the pedestrians. A woman in chemise2 and shoes was called Westernised, it meant endless shame; if a woman came suddenly before a man, the loose end of her sari would rapidly cover her face, the tongue would come out in embarrassment, the back would be turned to the man. The door of the palanquin outside was just as closed as the door of the rooms inside; for the wives and daughters of rich men, the palanquins would have an additional thick covering, it looked like a mobile cemetery. Beside them, walked the doorman with his stick bound in brass. Their job was to sit at the gate and guard the house, twirl their moustache, escort money to the bank and women to their relations and oversee the lady of the house being dunked into the Ganga on holy days. The hawkers would come with their wares prettily arranged in boxes; even Shiunondon would make some profit off of it3. And there were the drivers of cabs, those who were unhappy with their share would create a great tumult outside the gate. Our cleaner, the wrestler Shovaram would work out often, exercise with clubs of great, grind tobacco leaves in his hands4, sometimes chew raw radish along with the leaves with great peace and satisfaction; we would scream “RadhaKrishna” near his ears; his consternated gasps and raised hands only increasing our determination. This was his trick to hear more of the name of the one he believed in.
In those days, the city had no gas or electric lights; the brightness of kerosene lamp amazed us when it was first introduced. In the evenings, the forash5 would light the lamps of castor oil. In our study room, there glowed a lamp with double wicks.
The Master would teach us Pyari Sarkar’s First Book6. First came yawns, then sleep, there was a rubbing of the eyes. And over and over again I heard that the Master’s other student, Shotin, was a piece of gold, he had great focus In studies, he would rub snuff in his eyes if he sleepy. Even the horrible thought of remaining foolish among all the boys could not keep me alert. At nine in the night, I would be released, my eyelids drooping. The path from the outer wing to the inner quarters was lined with obscuring shutters, with lanterns hanging overhead. As I walked, my mind would say that something unknown was following me. My back would quiver. Ghosts and spirits were then in everyday chatter and in the corners of our minds. A maid-servant would hear the sudden the sudden nasal tones of a shakchunni7 and slam loudly to the ground. That female ghost was the most ill-tempered of them all, she was greedy for fish. There was a nut tree with thick foliage in the Western corner of the house, a figure would be seen with one foot on its branch and another on the second floor cornice. There were plenty to say that they had seen them, there was no dearth of people to believe it either. When my dada’s8 friend laughed it off, the servants thought that the fellow had no faith, the figure would twist his neck and then all his knowledge would leave him. In those times, terror had spread its web through the winds such that my legs would tingle when kept under the table.
Pipes had not yet been installed. The bearer would carry Ganga water of late winter and early spring in pitchers. In a dark ground-floor room, in rows of great vessels, drinking water for the entire year would be stored. Who does not know that those who live in secret in those tiny, moist, mossy rooms have great mouths, eyes in their chests, ears like winnowing trays and feet turned backwards. When I would pass those ghostly shadows on my way to the inner garden, my heart would churn and my feet would hurry on.
Water from the Ganga flowed in paved, roadside canals during the high tide. From my paternal grandfather’s9 time, water from these canals was bought for our pond. When the gate would be opened, water gargled and foamed out like a cataract. The fish would try to show tricks of swimming against the current. I would hold onto the railing of the southern balcony and gaze on, amazed. The pond’s time was doomed, truckloads of rubbish was dropped into it. After the pond was filled up, the mirror with its pastoral green reflection seemed to leave. The nut tree still stands, but we can no longer find the Brahmodoityo10, despite all the chances of it to stand with its legs far apart.
The light has brightened, both within and without.
Notes
1. Long pulls at of tobacco: Hookah
2. Chemise: Later replaced by the blouse of the sari
3. even Shiunondon would make some profit off of it: As doorman, Shiunondon would do the actual transaction; Tagore indicates that he would ask for a higher price and keep the extra for himself.
4. grind tobacco leaves in his hands: : Called khaini, this is a chewing tobacco
5. Forash: A domestic hand employed to look after the bedding
6. Pyari Sarkar’s First Book: The first of Pyari Charan Sarkar’s Reading books. It introduced much of Bengal to the English language, opening up routes of employment and starting a new chapter in India’s multicultural history when the general populace had a chance to read the Western canon.
7. Shakchunni: An unmarried female ghost
8. dada: Elder brother
9. paternal grandfather: The legendary businessman and leader of the Brahmo Samaj, Prince Dwarkanath Tagore
Brahmodoityo: The ghost of a Brahmin; the most feared and revered of Bengal’s spirits