1. Rabindranath Tagore

She had always ‘heard’ Rabindranath Tagore. First, sung in her school assembly during the morning prayers. And then that evening.

The school prayer routine was the same: Everyday a song or anthem or hymn would be chosen – Hindi, English, Punjabi, Bangla and even something in Telugu, which she hummed along because it had a catchy beat – and the school would sing it, along with the chorus. Rabindranath Tagore’s Ekla cholo re was the Bangla one they always sang; sometimes another called Dhitang dhitang bole. So that’s how she had first heard Tagore. She met him first in the Manorama Book of General Knowledge.

Her teachers kept enrolling her for general knowledge quiz competitions she never won. She just could not remember current affairs facts or facts. Otherwise she was an intelligent 13-year-old. A tad non-sporty, if you counted badminton and carom as sports, but otherwise normal. She liked mystery novels and had graduated from Nancy Drew to Hardy Boys. She liked Nancy Drew till the day she read the series where “titan haired Nancy” falls for Joe Hardy. No, she didn’t like Nancy at all after that and stopped reading her stupid adventures all together.

She had not started reading romance novels yet. She had boyfriends. Boys in her school who were her ‘fans’ because she was class monitor, junior prefect, best in debate, best in declamation, exemplary extempore speaker, choreographer, disciplinarian and Someone With A Bright Future according to Hindi teacher, MP Singh sir… She was smart, she was spunky and the boys flocked to her. They wrote, ‘Will you be my girlfriend?” on little slips of paper that some slipped into her bag, others threw into her school bus; and she said yes to all of them. There were five ‘boyfriends’ at one point of time. One wrote a letter in blood (which she suspected was chicken blood, but then he was a vegetarian), another tried writing poems while one, maliciously went about calling her names and that she “played with hearts”. She had kissed only two of those boys, and since unfortunately, they were best friends, it didn’t help the stories about her. She was still a virgin. And yet, the boys flocked to her. She had not yet realized that the boys could perhaps be flocking because she was busty, a 13 going on 36-C.

She had always worn shorts and tee shirts in summers and it was no different at her Nana-Nani’s place. It was summer holidays and as was norm during midterm school break, they were at their maternal grand parents’ house, without Dad. That’s when she heard Tagore.

There was a power cut and the entire village was silent. Except for the distant Hanuman Mandir bell and the plop-plop of the fat Talapi (bottom feeder) fish in the pukoor (pond) bang opposite the House. The House had looked different when she had been younger. It had a wonderful, old-world charm to it, quaint tiled mud-brick walls, somewhere even brick walls, the kitchen was in the central courtyard, with little avenues from each of the sections of the houses leading to it. Banana groves in the kitchen courtyard, mango orchard behind, the Narmada in the distance and far, far away, the railway line with the goods trains laden with coal. Old cemented floors, little, raised walls you could sit on and guava trees that had very easily, climbable branches. Now the house was a concrete, duplex monstrosity in ugly pink and uglier green. It had a falsely constructed arch over the old gate (that once had a tree that flowered with white blooms with yolk-yellow center and big, chunky leaves) that had bougainvillea hanging overheard.

The porch lead to a little patio that opened into an inner hall that opened on the right to the drawing room and straight up, into the seating room. The way nani explained it, the drawing room was for ‘distinguished guests’, the seating room for clerk types. The seating room also had a vinyl record player and some very, very old LPs and tapes. That’s where she had first heard Hemant Mukherjee’s voice singing Aami chini go chini tomaye bideshini… She was caught. She hardly understood the song, but the voice and a certain something (much later she learnt it was called longing and tease) kept her enthralled. Hour after hour she would rewind the song and listen to it. She learnt it and sang it to herself.

Her grandparents found it amusing. They teased her about it. Her mother would raise a brow each time nani said, “O go, ei mei to preme pode che, Rabindra Thakurer shonge.” (This girl has fallen in love with Rabindra Thakur, as Tagore was known). Two days and a mad picnic in the river later – where Ma had kept a strict eye on her so that she wouldn’t get ‘too wet as all the men are watching’ and she had been very irritated with the men – she had fever. Weather-change and all that, some said. Her face is pulled down so much in two days, said others. She was put on the big diwan in the drawing room, facing the TV. It was no big deal since half the time there was no electricity or the cable connection was gone. Yet she felt cold and shivered and how her body ached!

Her mother perhaps was in the center room – bedroom of sorts – sewing something. There was her favourite LP playing and soon it would be her favourite song. “Aami chini tomaye bidheshini… aami shoopenchi tomaye pran, o go bideshini.” She was on the diwan and lightly moaning. She had picked it from her Dad who firmly believed that moaning loudly during any sort of ailment, greatly alleviated any pain. She suspected he did it with greater vigour each time Ma was around. So she lay and moaned lightly and was delighted to find that it did in fact, make one feel better.

Nanaji had checked on her sometime back and had gone back to ask Nani to make something she liked. He came back now and enquired after her. She mumbled that she hurt all over. Nanaji stroked her hair and forehead and asked her to close her eyes and relax and listen to the music. He started talking to her softly about Rabindranath Tagore. Of how the poet had fallen in love with this 16-year-old French girl he met on a European tour and how he had written the Bideshini song for that girl. “But wasn’t Tagore very old?” she had asked. Nanaji had replied, “But a man can love at any age.” He had been pressing her shoulder and arm now. She had eyes closed when she thought she felt Nanani press down on her breasts. She was not sure, she was listening to the song. So she concentrated on feeling what Nanaji was doing. He was still talking something about Tagore, but softly. She opened her eyes and saw Nanaji upside down. His specs were resting on his forehead and he was looking straight ahead, his hands, palms flat were going down her shoulders. Then they went down her arms. Then they went down her front, pressing on her breasts, her stomach and up again. She got up.

“Bas Nana, aami theek hoye gachi.” (That’s it, I am well now) She walked into the other room and told her mother. She was made to go to sleep, gently.
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That and another time, two years later, were the last she asked any older person for help or advice, I think. Her biggest problem in life today, is asking anyone for help. She is convinced that people will let her down. They have often proven her right. However, in a last-ditch effort to save the Hope that she calls her life, she has now set out to seek others, those who might need an ear… to hear and someone who perhaps need someone else to believe their horrors. And yet, she doesn’t seek help. She says she realizes that it is perhaps foolish, but she shrugs helplessly and says, she can’t. She has also never read a single Tagore book or heard another song. She had not realized the exact reason for avoiding Tagore altogether till we discussed this story. She is sad that for an aspiring writer – when you can get her to accept that – she has missed out on other aspects of Tagore.