The Cauliflower (5 page)

The Prince and Mathur are both magnificently mustachioed. The upper lip of Mathur—who has a heavy, square-set face and small, kind eyes but a generous nose and voluptuous mouth—is bedecked in a spectacular handlebar mustache. The Prince is lean faced and handsome. He has large, sharp, keen eyes and his mustache is in the chevron style—densely covering his lip and stretching down and out on both sides almost as far as the corners of his lean jawbone.

In a fight to the death between these two fine examples of facial furniture it is difficult to know who might be the victor. Perhaps Mathur's waxed tips may give him the edge. But the Prince's mustache is less frivolous, more workmanlike. The Prince's mustache, and the Prince himself, mean business.

We find ourselves fairly well briefed on the physical and emotional location of the Rani at this present moment in history (behind a curtain, rich, vulnerable, newly widowed), but the Prince's circumstances are harder to gauge. The Prince is in a temporary state of flux. He is a zamindar by trade (a kind of gentrified/landed tax collector), but this is only the tip of his entrepreneurial iceberg.

In the not-too-distant future Prince Dwarakanath Tagore will be widely celebrated—and with much justification—as one of the most talented, innovative, and industrious Indian entrepreneurs of all time. He will found banks (in fact, he's already founded one); he will sell opium to China; he will purchase India's first coal mine; he will be in on the ground floor at the establishment of Assam's burgeoning tea trade; he will run tug services between Calcutta and the mouth of the Hooghly; he will build giant sugar, silk, and indigo factories. It should be noted that the Prince has a reputation for merciless efficiency. He is a ruthless business hawk who will happily grasp troublesome adversaries in his magnificent claws, contemplate them coolly, and then calmly tear their heads off. His is not a
bad
reputation, as such, but it's certainly not a reputation to be trifled with.

Like the Rani, the Prince has succeeded in business through his pragmatic contacts with Britain, the British government, and the East India Company. Also like the Rani, he has, on occasion, been burned by these connections. In 1827, this burn was a
salt
burn—the Prince rootled out an invidious web of corruption in the
Salt
Revenue Department (where he was working, for a mere pittance, simply to forge business connections) and was spitefully countersued for his trouble.

How can we possibly hope to look deep into the heart of a man like Prince Dwarakanath Tagore—who lived and breathed and schemed (and made inconceivably huge amounts of money) almost 180 years ago? We can't. It's impossible. We can only make a series of vague assumptions and then cheerfully forge our equally fatuous, clumsy, and superficial deductions from them.

What we
do
know for certain is that the Prince's unsatisfactory involvement in the
Salt
Revenue Department corruption farrago has left a bitter taste in his mouth (
sic
) and formed in him the powerful and completely logical urge to shake off (
sic
) his “official,” governmental connections and move forward in a more independent, free-ranging entrepreneurial capacity.

It can't be an accident (can it?) that only a year after this decision (in 1828), the Prince and his great friend Ram Mohun Roy (who was definitely the spiritual and ideological brains of the outfit) helped to found what would eventually become (after a series of complex transfigurations) one of the most important social and religious Hindu/quasi-Protestant/monotheistic/Western-influenced/semi-egalitarian/pro-educational/anti-caste/anti-idol movements in India, the
Brahmo Samaj
(or Society of God). This embryonic movement—little more than a tiny, fluttering heart beat or pulse (think of it, if you like, as a kind of very early, cultural pacemaker)—will start what is generally known as the Bengali Renaissance, a neat porthole through which modern India herself may eventually be glimpsed.

In one of the
Samaj'
s future incarnations, under the leadership of Keshab Chandra Sen, it will become utterly instrumental—nay,
critical
—in bringing the soft, stuttering voice of Sri Ramakrishna
Paramahamsa
to the attention of the world.

Salt
connects the Prince and the Rani—it lightly seasons them—but they do not know it. And eventually they shall both—one consciously, one inadvertently—give a helping hand to the childlike saint who will be God.

But this is all a long way off. For now, the present moment is treading on the back of the Rani's skirts, remember? And history is a buzzing mosquito which likes to hang—quite infuriatingly!—just in front of the stern nose of Prince Dwarakanath Tagore, distracting his attention and sometimes prompting him to irritably and scowlingly flap his hand.

So we know what connects these two individuals in the past (
salt
) and in the future (Sri Ramakrishna), but why exactly is the Prince visiting the Rani on this sweltering, premonsoon day? (I've added this climatic detail myself—we have no idea of the season in which the visit was undertaken, although we can be pretty certain that if we are in Calcutta then the weather will be dreadful.) Is it to help or to swindle her?

When we tune in to their halting exchange (stage-managed by Mathur) we can hear the Prince (who does not excel in small talk) expressing his condolences over the death of his former friend and business associate, Rajchandra, and then idly wondering (just by the by—cue the arrival of a small flying formation of several large and mean-looking Indian vultures) if the Rani is truly equipped to cope with the enormous responsibilities incumbent on a person in possession of a giant land/business portfolio. In plain English (or even in Bengali) this actually translates as: The Rani—a mere woman—has just inherited a vast estate, and Prince Dwarakanath Tagore is strongly of the opinion that she needs to employ herself a competent manager to oversee it.

Mathur listens to the Prince's opinions with immense courtesy, twiddles his mustache, nods obligingly, and then disappears between the flapping curtains. Ah, what might be the Rani's expression when he meets with it on the other side? Fearful? Flustered? Indignant? Let's settle on “cynical with a touch of anxious.” Perhaps the dear Rani even goes so far as to indulge in a small eye roll.

Mathur stands before her. “The Prince helpfully suggests that you employ an efficient manager to take charge of your vast estate, madam.”

The Rani nods. “Please thank the Prince for this excellent piece of advice, Mathur, but tell him that I am concerned that it may be difficult to find—at such short notice—someone reliable and completely trustworthy to fill this important role.”

Mathur nods. He pushes his way back between the curtains. “Prince, the Rani thanks you for your most excellent advice,” he announces (another mustache twiddle), “but is concerned that it might be difficult to find a suitably reliable and trustworthy individual at such short notice.”

The Prince receives this news in an attitude of detached thoughtfulness and then, after a suitable duration, cheerfully announces, “Please be so good as to inform the Rani that—in the light of my great attachment to her former spouse, Rajchandra—I am more than happy to take on the prodigious responsibility of this Herculean task myself.”

Mathur's small eyes widen slightly. He nods his head and then quickly disappears between the curtains.

At this stage it may be fruitful to consider whether either partner involved in this polite exchange is actually able to hear the other without the benefit of Mathur's involvement. My guess is that they can (if only because this quadruples the comedy potential of the scene).

Let's imagine Mathur back behind the curtain again and coming to a halt in front of the Rani with (in the English colonial style) a small, officious click of his heels.

“Prince Dwarakanath Tagore has generously offered to place his own not inconsiderable skills at your disposal, madam,” he informs her, his voice creaking slightly under the stress.

The Rani gently dabs a shell-pink silk handkerchief against her upper lip, where a small line of perspiration has recently formed. She knows that it would be socially ruinous, not to mention utterly ungrateful, for a brand-new widow like herself to reject such a munificent offer from an individual as well connected and as powerful as the Prince. She slowly inhales and then turns to Mathur, a gentle smile playing around her lips.

“Please thank the Prince for his generous offer, Mathur,” she begins, her voice slightly louder now than it has been hitherto. “I am deeply touched by it, and greatly flattered, but at the present moment I find it impossible to guess exactly how much money or property I am actually in possession of.” She pauses, judiciously, before delivering her killer blow. “One of the few things I
am
aware of, however, is that my late husband, Rajchandra, recently loaned the Prince the sum of two hundred thousand
rupee
s, and if I could get this money back it would be immensely helpful to me at this difficult time.”

Mathur's mouth drops open as he listens to the carefully chosen (and sweetly delivered) words of his indomitable mother-in-law. This is the
Prince
—the celebrated
Brahmin
Dwarakanath Tagore! Who in Bengal might dare to stand in opposition to his schemes?

The Rani gazes at Mathur calmly and evenly. She does not flinch.

After a short interval Mathur closes his mouth, draws a deep breath, and turns to make his way back through the curtains. He is flustered. Perhaps he walks into the fabric at the wrong point and is to be seen floundering helplessly for a few moments among heavy and asphyxiating folds of drapery. Eventually his exit is accomplished. He stands before the Prince, breathing heavily, his usually immaculate hair in a state of disarray.

“Prince Dwarakanath,” he starts off, haltingly, his cheeks reddening, “the Rani is immensely—”

The Prince raises a curt hand to silence Mathur, but the gesture is extended into an irritable swipe at something infinitesimal—possibly a mosquito—which currently seems to be pestering him. “Tell the Rani that I shall repay the money shortly,” he snaps. “I will return first thing in the morning in order to discuss the most efficient means by which this may be achieved.”

He promptly takes his leave.

The following day Prince Dwarakanath Tagore returns and is obliged to tell the shuffling Mathur that he has no access to such a large amount of cash as things currently stand, but that he is happy to sign over a prime piece of property to the Rani which is worth an equivalent amount. Mathur disappears behind the curtain. He delivers the Prince's curt message to the smiling Rani.

The Rani—to Mathur's intense mortification—innocently wonders how much annual revenue this property might be expected to fetch and is duly informed (I think we can probably assume that the Prince just shouts the relevant figures directly at the drapery) that it usually amounts to approximately thirty-six thousand
rupee
s. The Rani smiles at this, and nods. She is satisfied. She sends Mathur out beyond the curtain with one final message for the Prince.

“The Rani says that she is only a humble and ignorant widow,” Mathur mutters, his eyes fixed on the exquisitely woven rug which lies passively under his feet, “and her property is not large. Touched as she is by both your concern and your interest, she believes that it would be nothing short of an act of profound discourtesy on her part to expect someone as exalted and powerful as Prince Dwarakanath Tagore to lower himself to the management of her piddling affairs. It seems that she is now determined to depend solely upon the services of her sons-in-law and heirs.”

The Prince scowls ferociously. A short silence follows. A small cough may be heard from behind the curtain, the gentle shifting of a chair, several soft footfalls, the quiet opening and closing of a door.

The Prince remains standing with Mathur for a minute or so, both of them furiously resisting eye contact, then he suddenly expostulates and clamps an angry hand onto one side of his lean, tanned neck. It seems possible—nay, probable, even—that history has just bitten him there.

August 1885, the garden house in Cossipore, North Calcutta

On the floor, by the bed, is a half-consumed bowl of farina pudding. The visitor sits down, cross-legged, by the Great Master's side and inadvertently knocks it with his knee. He glances toward it and then sharply recoils. The milky pudding, this congealed baby food—the only substance which the Great Master has been capable of consuming for many months now—is liberally splattered with not only numerous thick, dark clots of blood but also several ghoulish streaks of stinking yellow pus.

The visitor half-retches and glances over toward the naked and emaciated Master, who—supported by a long bolster on his bed—is lost deep in a trance. He has a magnificent garland of flowers around his neck which almost manages to conceal the great, suppurating, cancerous hole that now ominously pulsates in the center of his throat.

1857, the Kali Temple, Dakshineswar (six miles north of Calcutta)

We poor Hindus must accept our station in life and simply do the best that we can under whatever circumstances we find ourselves in, no matter how difficult or unfair or hopeless they may sometimes seem. We are not all born equal. It is God's will—and the burden of
karma
—that we should enter the world rich or poor, healthy or sick, loved or despised. We must resign ourselves to these circumstances. What is the point in fighting them? What good will it do us? There are always clear boundaries in life which must never be crossed. Every caste has its role and plays its part within the wider body of its community. Where would we be without the warriors to defend us, or the farmers and traders to feed us, or the laborers to do all the footwork? Uncle always says that only humility and renunciation and selflessness and devotion may bring us some relief in this harsh life and perhaps help to improve our fortunes during our next incarnation. Uncle despises ambition. Uncle despises
my
ambition. He laughs at it all the time. “Just look at Hriday—so tall, handsome, and strong, and so determined to make the best of himself!” Uncle chuckles.