Short Stories By Rabindranath Tagore

Taraprasanna's Fame 1

Like most writers, Taraprasanna was rather shy and retiring in nature.
To go out amongst other people was an ordeal for him. Sitting at home
and writing all the time had weakened his eyesight, bent his back, and
given him little experience of the world. Social pleasantries did not come
easily to him, so he did not feel very safe outside his home. Others
thought him a bit stupid, and they could not be blamed for this. A
distinguished gentleman on first meeting Taraprasanna might say
warmly, ‘I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to meet you.’
Taraprasanna would not respond: he would stare, tongue-tied, at his
right palm, as if to imply, ‘It is possible that you are very pleased, but I
wonder how I can be so false as to say that I am pleased.’ Or he might be
invited to someone’s house one afternoon: his wealthy host might – as
dusk fell and food was served – deprecate his own hospitality with such
words as ‘Nothing special – just our ordinary humble fare – a poor man’s
crust – not worthy of you at all, I’m afraid.’ Taraprasanna would say
nothing, as if it were impossible to disagree with what his host was
saying. Sometimes some good-natured person averred that scholarship as
profound as Taraprasanna’s was rare in this age, that Sarasvati had
deserted her lotus-seat to dwell in Taraprasanna’s throat. He made no
objection to this – choked, so it seemed, by Sarasvati’s presence in his
throat. He should have known that those who praise a man to his face,
and disparage themselves, deliberately exaggerate because they expect
to be contradicted. If the person they are speaking to takes in everything
without blenching, they feel let down. They are pleased to be told that
their statements are false.
Taraprasanna behaved quite differently with the people in his own
home – so much so that even his wife Dakshayani could not beat him in
an argument. She was forced to say, ‘All right, all right, I give in. I’ve got
things to do now.’ Very few husbands have the skill or luck ever to get
their wives to admit defeat in a verbal battle!
Taraprasanna lived contentedly. Dakshayani firmly believed that no
one equalled her husband in learning or intellect, and she did not hesitate to say so. He would reply, ‘You don’t have any other husband to
compare me with’ – which made her very cross. Her only complaint was
that her husband had never displayed his extraordinary talents to the
outside world – had never made any effort to do so. Nothing that he had
written had been published.
Sometimes she asked to hear her husband’s writing, and the less she
understood it the more it astonished her. She had read Krittibas’s
Ramayana, Kashidas’s Mahabharata and Kabikankan’s Chandimangal, and
had heard them being recited. They were all as clear as water – even
illiterate people could easily understand them; but she had never
encountered writing like her husband’s, so brilliant that it was
unintelligible. She thought to herself, ‘When these books are printed and
no one understands a word, how amazed everyone will be!’ Again and
again she told her husband, ‘You should get your writings printed.’
‘With regard to the printing of books,’ he replied, ‘the great Manu has
said: “It is a natural activity for created beings, but abstention brings
great rewards.” ’
1
Taraprasanna had four children – all daughters. Dakshayani regarded
this as a failing in herself, and therefore felt unworthy of so talented a
husband. To be married to a man who produced, at the drop of a hat,
such formidable tomes, and yet to have nothing but female offspring,
was shameful incompetence on her part.
When Taraprasanna’s eldest daughter reached his chest in height, his
carefree contentment ended. He now remembered that one by one his
four daughters would have to be married, and this would cost an
enormous amount of money. His wife said confidently, ‘Just apply your
mind a bit, and I’m sure we won’t need to worry.’
‘You really think so?’ said Taraprasanna rather anxiously. ‘All right,
what do you suggest?’
‘Go to Calcutta,’ said Dakshayani, without hesitation or doubt. ‘Have
your books printed, get yourself known to everyone. The money will
soon roll in.’
Taraprasanna was gradually encouraged by his wife, and decided that
what he had written to date was enough to pay for the wedding of every
girl in the village. But now a big dilemma arose about his visit to Calcutta. Dakshayani could not bear to let her innocent, helpless,
pampered husband go away on his own. Who would feed him, dress
him, remind him of his daily chores, protect him from the various
hazards of the world? Her inexperienced husband, however, was equally
unhappy about taking his wife to a strange place. In the end Dakshayani
engaged a worldly-wise man from the village to go in her stead, giving
him countless instructions about her husband’s daily needs. She
extracted numerous vows from him as she saw him off, and loaded him
with charms and amulets; and she threw herself to the ground weeping
when he had gone.
In Calcutta Taraprasanna, with the help of his astute minder,
published his book The Radiance of Vedanta. Most of the money he had
raised by pawning his wife’s jewellery was spent on this.
He sent The Radiance of Vedanta to bookshops; and to every editor,
however important or unimportant, he sent copies for review. He also
sent one to his wife, by registered mail. He was afraid that otherwise it
would be stolen by the postman.
On the day that Dakshayani first saw the book, with her husband’s
name printed on the title page, she invited all the women she knew in
the village round for a meal. She left the book open near to where she
asked them to sit, and when everyone was seated she said, ‘Oh dear,
who’s dropped that book over there? Annada, dear, could you pick it up?
I’ll put it away.’ Annada was the only one who could read. The book was
put back on the shelf. For a few minutes Dakshayani busied herself with
something else; then she said to her eldest daughter, ‘Do you want to
read your father’s book, Shashi? Go ahead, child, read it. Don’t be shy.’
But Shashi showed no interest in it, so a little later her mother said
crossly, ‘Don’t spoil your father’s book! Give it to Kamaladidi to put back
on top of that cupboard.’ If the book had been conscious of anything, it
would have felt like the death of Vedanta after such a day of torment.
One by one reviews appeared in the papers. What Dakshayani had
anticipated turned out to be largely correct: reviewers throughout the
land, unable to understand a single word of the book, were mightily
impressed by it. With one voice they said: ‘No book of such substance
has been published before.’ Critics who never touched a book beyond
Bengali translations of Reynolds’ London Mystery
1 wrote with great enthusiasm: ‘If instead of sackfuls of plays and novels more books like
this could come out, Bengali literature would really attract readers.’ Men
who for generations had never heard of Vedanta wrote: ‘We do not
concur with Taraprasanna Babu on every point – lack of space prevents
us from saying where. On the whole, however, our views are in
agreement with the author’s.’ On the basis of that statement, if true, the
book ‘on the whole’ should have been thrown to the flames.
From wherever there were libraries or no libraries, librarians wrote to
Taraprasanna asking for the book, buying it with their official letter-
heads rather than with money. Many wrote, ‘Your thoughtful book has
met a great need in our country.’ Taraprasanna was not quite sure what
they meant by ‘thoughtful’, but he proudly posted The Radiance of
Vedanta to every library at his own expense.
Just when his pleasure at all these words of praise had reached its
height, a letter came from Dakshayani: she was expecting a fifth child
very soon. He and his custodian now went round to the shops to collect
the money the book had earned – but the shopkeepers all said the same:
not a single copy had been sold. Only in one place did he hear that
someone had written from the country asking for the book: it was sent
cash-on-delivery and returned – no one had taken it. The bookseller had
to pay for the postage, so he angrily insisted on returning all the copies
to the author there and then.
Taraprasanna went back to his lodgings, thinking and thinking but
finding it impossible to comprehend what had happened. The more he
thought about his ‘thoughtful’ book the more worried he became. At last
he set off home, making do with the tiny amount of money he had left.
He greeted his wife with an elaborate show of cheerfulness. She was
smiling in anticipation of good news. He threw a copy of The Bengal
Messenger on to her lap. As she read it, she bestowed inexhaustible
blessings on the editor, made mental pūjā-offerings to his pen. Then she
turned to her husband again: he took out a copy of New Dawn.
Dakshayani read this too with immense delight, and again turned her
tender, expectant gaze on her husband. He now took out The New Age;
then India’s Fortune; then The Happy Awakening; then The Sun’s Light and
The Wave of News; then Hope, The Dawn, Uplift, Blossom, The Companion,
The Sita Gazette, The Ahalya Library Journal, Pleasant News, The Guardian, World Judge, Jasmine-creeper. The smiling Dakshayani wept tears of joy.
Then, drying her eyes, she looked at her husband once more – at the
light of fame in his beaming face.
‘There are lots more journals,’ he said.
‘I’ll look at them this afternoon,’ said Dakshayani. ‘Now give me the
other news.’
‘Just as I was leaving Calcutta,’ said Taraprasanna, ‘I heard that the
Governor-General’s wife had brought out a book – but she didn’t
mention The Radiance of Vedanta in it.’
‘I don’t want to hear about that,’ said Dakshayani. ‘Tell me what else
you have brought.’
‘I have a few letters,’ said Taraprasanna.
Then Dakshayani said straight out, ‘How much money have you
brought?’
‘Five rupees borrowed from Bidhubhushan,’ said Taraprasanna.
When at last Dakshayani had heard the whole story, all her trust in
the honesty of the world was completely destroyed. The booksellers had
clearly cheated her husband, and all the book-buyers of Bengal had
conspired to cheat the booksellers. Finally she concluded that
Bidhubhushan, the man she had sent with her husband to deputize for
her, had secretly been in league with the booksellers; and come to think
of it, Bishvambhar Chatterjee from across the village – her husband’s
chief enemy – had surely had a part in the plot. Yes, two days after her
husband had left for Calcutta, she had seen Bishvambhar talking to
Kanai Pal under the banyan tree: it did not occur to her that
Bishvambhar quite often chatted to Kanai Pal, for the conspiracy was
now as clear as daylight to her.
Dakshayani’s domestic worries continued to grow. The failure of this
one simple way of earning money redoubled her shame that she had so
sinfully borne only daughters. Neither Bishvambhar, Bidhubhushan, nor
all the inhabitants of Bengal could be held responsible for this: the
shame rested on her alone, though she also blamed her daughters
themselves – those that she had and those that she might yet have. She
had not a moment’s peace of mind, day or night.
Her state of health, as her confinement approached, became so bad that everyone was very alarmed. The helpless, distraught Taraprasanna
went to Bishvambhar and said, ‘Dādā, if you could take fifty or so of my
books as a pledge for a loan, I could send for a good midwife from town.’
‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ said Bishvambhar, ‘I’ll give you the money
you need – you keep the books.’ He then persuaded Kanai Pal to lend
him some money, and Bidhubhushan went to Calcutta at his own
expense to fetch the midwife.
Impelled by something, Dakshayani called her husband into her room
and said, making him vow to her, ‘Whenever that pain of yours gets bad,
don’t forget to take your Dream Medicine – and never take off the
amulet the sannyāsī gave you.’ Taking her husband’s hands, she secured
his promise on countless other minor matters. She also told him not to
put any trust in Bidhubhushan, who had ruined him, so that now there
was no question of putting her husband – medicine, amulet, blessings
and all – into his hands. She repeatedly warned her husband – her
trusting, forgetful, Shiva-like husband – about the heartless and crooked
conspirators of this world. Finally, in a whisper, she said, ‘When my
baby daughter is born, if she lives, see that she is called Vedantaprabha,
“The Radiance of Vedanta”. Later you can call her simply “Prabha”.’ She
took the dust of her husband’s feet. In her mind was the thought, ‘I came
into his house to give him nothing but daughters. Perhaps his
misfortunes will end now.’
When the midwife cried out, ‘Mā, look here, what a beautiful little girl
you have,’ Dakshayani took one look and then closed her eyes, saying
faintly, ‘Vedantaprabha’. She had no time to say any more in this world.