The Exercise Book PDF by Rabindranath Tagore

## 8 ## The Exercise Book ### RABINDRANATH TAGORE Rabindranath Tagore ( 1861-1941 ) was born in Calcutta, the fourteenth and youngest child in a rich and talented family. The latter half of the nineteenth century was an exciting time for the Bengali elite, a period of intellectual and artistic awa...

## 8 ## The Exercise Book ### RABINDRANATH TAGORE Rabindranath Tagore ( 1861-1941 ) was born in Calcutta, the fourteenth and youngest child in a rich and talented family. The latter half of the nineteenth century was an exciting time for the Bengali elite, a period of intellectual and artistic awakening, referred to as the 'Bengal Renaissance'. Raja Rammohan Roy, the social reformer, was an important figure associated with the Bengal Renaissance, and was a close friend of Tagore's grandfather, Dwarkanath Tagore, also an eminent personality of the time. Many members of the Tagore family were illustrious and outstanding, and the Tagores ran their own literary magazines, and wrote and produced their own plays. Tagore himself was a poet, short-story writer, novelist, playwright and essayist; a pioneer in education who established Santiniketan; an initiator of economic projects for community development, and an actively engaged thinker in the context of nationalist struggles. In 1913, he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature. As a child, Tagore showed resistance to formal schooling, apart from which he was educated at home by tutors and elder brothers. At seventeen, he went to England and this two-year experience of a different culture helped to raise various social questions, particularly about gender relations in his own society in the mind of the young Rabindranath. His close experience of the women's quarters, particularly his relationship with older sisters-in law, had already given him a sensitive insight into the constriction and confinement of women in his milieu. These engagements of Tagore found an intellectual context in the many debates about the position and role of women and the desirability of reform, current in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Some of Tagore's finest works, for instance the short story 'Strir Patra' or 'The Wife's Letter' ( 1914 ), are sensitive explorations of women's lives and experiences in contemporary Bengal. Uma became a great nuisance as soon as she learned to write. On every wall in the house, she would draw unsteady lines and write with a piece of coal in big unformed letters - Rain drops on tree tops. She hunted out the copy of Haridas's Secrets under her sister-in-law's pillow and wrote in pencil on every page - Black water, red flower. With huge scrawled letters, she obliterated most of the auspicious dates in the new almanac kept for the household's constant use. Right in the middle of the credits column in her father's account book, she wrote— He who writes and studies hard Will one day ride a horse and cart. So long she had never been thwarted in these literary pursuits, but in the end, one day, there was a major disaster. Uma's elder brother Gobindalal looked inoffensive enough, but he was always writing in the newspapers. Listening to him talk, not one of his relatives or neighbours would ever think him capable of deep thought; and indeed no one could ever accuse him of thinking on any subject; but he wrote. And his views coincided entirely with those of most readers in Bengal. Without any recourse to logic, depending solely on the effect of his thrilling rhetoric, Gobindalal had composed an entertaining essay vigorously demolishing the grave misconceptions about physiology current among European scientists. One day, in the afternoon when no one was about, Uma took her brother's pen and ink and wrote on the essay in very large letters - Gopal is a very good boy, he eats whatever is given him. I do not think that by her use of the name 'Gopal', Uma had intended any special reflection on the readers of her brother's essay. But her brother's anger knew no bounds. First he beat her then he confiscated her carefully collected, meagre store of writing implements - a stubby pencil and a blunt ink-stained pen. The humiliated little girl, unable fully to understand the reason for so severe a punishment, sat in a corner of the room and began to cry. After the period of discipline was over, Gobindalal somewhat remorsefully returned Uma's looted property, and moreover tried to assuage the little girl's grief by presenting her with a bound, ruled, stout exercise book. Uma was then seven years old. From that day on, this exercise-book spent its nights under Uma's pillow and its days under her arm or in her lap. When, her hair in a tiny braid, accompanied by a maid, she went to the girls' school in the village, the exercise-book went along with her. The sight of it would arouse wonder in some of the girls, greed or envy in others. In the first year, she wrote carefully in her exercise-book - The birds sing, the night is past. She would sit on the floor of her bedroom clutching the exercise-book, and write, read and declaim loudly in a sing-song voice. In this way she collected many lines of prose and poetry. In the second year, a few independent compositions began to make their appearance. They were very brief but extremely pregnant, lacking both introduction and conclusion. We may offer a few examples. Below where she had copied out the tale of the tiger and heron from Kathamala, you would come across a line not to be found in Kathamala, nor for that matter anywhere in Bengali literature to this day. The line ran as follows - I love Jashi very much. Let no one think that I am about to tell a love story. Jashi was not an eleven or twelve-year-old boy of the neighbourhood. She was an elderly servant of the household, her real name being Jashoda. But it is impossible to gauge the real nature of the little girl's feeling for Jashi from this one sentence. He who wished to write a reliable history of this matter would find a clear denial of the earlier statement just two pages later. This is not just one instance: throughout Uma's compositions, one might note this fault of self-contradiction. In one place we might read-'I'll never speak to Hari again.' ( Not a boy, Haricharan, but a girl schoolmate of Uma's called Haridasi.) But soon after that was a statement which might induce one to think that Uma had no dearer friend in all the world than Hari. Next year, when the little girl was nine years old, the strains of the shehnai could be heard one morning in the house. It was Uma's wedding-day. The groom was called Pyarimohan; he was a literary associate of Gobindalal's. Although he was not very old and had received some education, his mind had remained entirely closed to new ways of thought. For this reason he was very highly regarded by his neighbours, and Gobindalal tried to follow his example, though without complete success. Draped in a Benarasi sari, her little face veiled, Uma went weeping to her husband's house. Her mother told her, 'Listen to your mother-in-law, darling; attend to the household, don't spend all your time reading and writing.' Gobindalal told her, 'Remember not to scratch letters on the walls; it's not that kind of house. And for heaven's sake don't scribble on any of Pyarimohan's writings.' The little girl's heart quaked. She realized that no one would make allowances for her in the house to which she was going. Through many reprimands suffered over many days, she would have to learn what they regarded as fault, what an offence, what an oversight. The shehnai was playing again that morning. But it is doubtful whether there was one person in the crowd who understood what was going on the trembling heart of that little girl covered with ornaments, in her veil and Benarasi sari. Jashi went with Uma. It was understood that she would stay for a few days to settle Uma in her in-laws' house, and then return. The kind-hearted Jashi, after much thought, took Uma's exercise-book along with her. The book was part of her paternal house, a loving reminder of her brief stay in the house of her birth. In crooked, unformed letters it told the abridged history of her parents' love and care for her. It brought a brief savour of tender freedom to the little girl in the midst of her premature wifeliness. In the first few days after her arrival in her in-laws' house, Uma wrote nothing; she had no time. At length, some days later, Jashi returned to her former residence. That day, Uma shut the door of her bedroom in the afternoon, took the exercise-book out of her tin box, and wrote tearfully in it-'Jashi has gone home, I want to go back to Mother too.' Now Uma no longer had the leisure to copy anything out of the Charupath or the Bodhoday, perhaps she did not have the inclination either. So nowadays there were no great intervals between Uma's own brief compositions. Immediately after the above statement, we might read-'if Dada comes to take me home just once, I'll never spoil his writings again'. It is said that Uma's father often attempted to bring Uma home, but Gobindalal teamed up with Pyarimohan to frustrate these plans. He said that now was the time for Uma to learn devotion to her husband; if she was brought away frequently from her husband's house into the familiar ambit of her parents' love, her mind would be unnecessarily distracted. Mixing advice and mockery, he composed so excellent an essay on this theme that none of his like-minded readers could refrain from admitting the undeniable truth of his exposition. Having heard people say this, Uma wrote in her exercise-book-'Dada, I beg of you, take me home just once, I'll never make you angry again.' One day, Uma had shut the door and was writing some such meaningless triviality in her exercise-book. Her sister in-law Tilakmanjari become exceedingly curious. She thought, I must find out what Boudidi does when she shuts the door every so often. Through a crack in the door, she observed that Uma was writing. She was amazed. The goddess of learning Saraswati, had never made even so secret a visit to the women's quarters of their house. Her younger sister Kananmanjari also come to have a peep. And the still younger Anangamanjari she too stood on tiptoe and looked with much difficulty through the crack in the door to penetrate the mystery of the locked room. As she was writing, Uma suddenly heard the laughter of three familiar voices outside the room. She realized what had happened. Hastily shutting the book away in her box, she hid her face on the bed in shame and terror. Pyarimohan was much disturbed by this news. If women began to read and write, novels and plays would soon make their way into the home and it would be hard to uphold the household virtues. Moreover, he had, by special reflection, evolved an exceedingly subtle theory. He said that the power of the female and the power of the male together produced the sacred power of the conjugal relationship; but if the power of the female was vanquished through education and study, the power of the male alone would be paramount. Then male power would clash with male power to produce so terrible a destructive energy that the power of the conjugal bond would be completely destroyed, and so the woman would become a widow. To this day no one has been able to refute this theory. On returning home in the evening, Pyarimohan scolded Uma roundly, and made fun of her as well, saying, 'We'll have to order a lawyer's turban; my wife will go to office with a pen tucked behind her ear.' Uma was unable to understand all this. Since she had not read Pyarimohan's essay, she had not learnt to appreciate such wit. But she shrank within herself it seemed to her that if the earth opened, she would disappear into its depths to hide her shame. For many days after that, she did not write in her book. But one day, on an autumn morning, a beggar-woman was singing an Agamani song outside. Uma sat listening silently at the window, resting her face on the bars. The autumn sun in any case brought back memories of childhood; on top of that, the Agamani song was too much for Uma to bear. Uma could not sing; but since learning to write, she had developed the habit of writing down any song she heard, to lessen the pain of not being able to sing it. Today the beggar-woman was singing- The folk of the city say to Uma's mother- Your lost light has returned' At this, half-crazed, the queen rushes out- Where are you Uma, where are you! The queen says weeping, 'My Uma, you've come, Come to me, my darling, come to my arms, Come to me, my darling, let me hold you just once.' At this, stretching her arms around her mother's neck, Uma weeps in hurt pride and says so the queen, Why didn't you come to fetch your daughter?' Resentful anguish welled up in Uma's heart, her eyes filled with tears. She called the singer secretly to her room, shut the door and began to write down the song in her eccentric spelling. Tilakmanjari, Kanakmanjari and Anangamanjari observed everything through the crack in the door, and burst out, clapping their hands, 'Boudidi we've seen what you're doing!' Uma quickly unfastened the door, came out and began to plead with them, 'Darling sisters, please don't tell anybody. I beg you, please don't. I'll never do it again, I'll never write again-' At length, Uma noticed that Tilakmanjari was eyeing her exercise-book. She ran and clutched the book to her chest. Her sisters in-law tried to take it away from her by force, but when they did not succeed, Anangamanjari went to summon her brother. Pyarimohan arrived and sat down grimly on the bed. He said in a voice like thunder, 'Give me the exercise-book.' Seeing that his command was not obeyed, he lowered his voice a couple of notes and said: 'Give it to me.' The little girl clasped the exercise-book to her chest and directed a glance of utter supplication at her husband's face. But when she saw Pyarimohan was getting up to snatch the book from her, she flung it down, covered her face with her hands and collapsed on the floor. Pyarimohan took the exercise-book and started to read the little girl's compositions out in a loud voice. Hearing this, Uma clasped the earth in a still tighter embrace, while the other three little girls were beside themselves with laughter. After that day, Uma never got back her exercise-book. Pyarimohan had an exercise-book too, filled with barbed essays expounding his elaborate theories. But there was no benefactor of humankind to seize that book and destroy it. ### NOTES Rain drops on tree tops: Literally 'water drops, the leaves shake': a rhyme commonly taught to small children learning to read. Haridas's Secrets: A sensational novel by Bhubanchandra Mukhopadhyaya, published in parts between 1871 and 1873, it became popular 'forbidden' reading for Bengalis in the late nineteenth century. Black water, red flower: Closely suggests Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar's pioneering textbook Barnaparichay. He who writes, etc.: A traditional rhyme popular among primer-writers, reflecting the aspirations of the new educated middle-class. The birds sing, etc.: The opening lines of a poem by Madanmohan Tarkalankar, commonly included in textbooks. Kathamala: A book of animal fables by Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar, mainly based on Aesop. Charupath, Bodhoday: Popular school primers. Agamani song: A traditional song to welcome the goddess Durga to her parents' home, which she is held to visit at the time of Durga Puja in early autumn. 'Uma' is another name for Durga. ### QUESTIONS 1. Analyse the significance of the exercise book for Uma. What do the examples of Uma's writing suggest about her? 2 Can this story be read as a strong reformist plea for greater equality in educational opportunities for men and women? 3. Comment on the story's depiction of child marriage. 4. Can the song for Durga be seen as an ironic juxtaposition with Uma's situation? What are the ways in which it is ironic? 5. Assess the narratorial attitude towards Uma, Gobindalal and Pyarimohan. Analyse the following descriptions: * 'Uma became a great nuisance as soon as she learnt to write'. * 'His [Gobindalal's] views coincided entirely with those of most readers in Bengal'. * 'He [Pyarimohan] had, by special reflection, evolved an exceedingly subtle theory.' 6. Do you think it is possible for a writer sensitively or effectively to portray a situation that he may not have personally suffered? Consider Premchand's 'Deliverance' and Tagore's 'The Exercise Book' with reference to this question.