Rabindranath Tagore is not an unknown name to any Bengali household. If not anything else, we are often accused of overusing it. I have miraculously stayed away from his work partly because I couldn't read the original (which is written in Bengali) owing to my lack of Bangla reading skills and partly because of the pressure to like his work. I have, however, made some exceptions by reading the English version of some of his books - Binodini is the latest read!
Binodini, named after the leading lady of the book, was originally written (as stated earlier) in Bengali under the name ‘Choker Bali’ (Literal translation: Eye-Sore). However given the popularity, it was later translated in English (By Krishna Kripalani) but the name was changed to Binodini, based on the original manuscript penned by Rabindranath Tagore himself in which he called it Binodini.
The novel is set in a wealthy Bengali family household in Calcutta at the time of the Raj. It is a simple story of intertwining complex human emotions wrapped around 4 characters – Mahendra, Asha (Mahendra’s Wife), Bihari (Mahendra’s Best Friend) & Binodini (A young widow who comes to live at Mahendra’s house on his mother’s request) - living in the household. The supporting characters include Rajlakshmi and Annapurna, Mahendra’s mother and aunt living with Mahendra.
I call it a simple story because there is no complexity in the outer world in the way things are placed between the characters themselves, however the intricate emotions and the writer’s maturity to represent them in varied flavours and intensity is fascinating. It is an experience of Tagore’s intuitive understanding of human nature and his inimitable style portraying shades of love and desire, of hurt pride and jealousy, of hearts full of emotions and minds full of judgment propelling the characters to move towards or away from each other.
I must warn the first time readers of Tagore’s work that he is known for over-dramatisation however this book seems to be on the milder side, thanks to Binodini – the noble laureate has been brilliant is her characterisation. Here’s a sneak peek into the story line:
Mahendra, as the spoilt brat, changes his mind about marriage after refusing Binodidni’s hand and marries Asha who was to be Bihari’s wife. Bihari, the faithful friend, crushes his own emotions for Asha under the weight of his long trusted friendship with Mahendra and becomes the much despised brother –in-law instead of the loving husband that he had imagined himself to be. After a short period of marital bliss, comes the enchanting Binodini who sweeps everyone off their feet by filling the void - in Asha’s life as her friend, in Mahendra’s life as the alluring playmate and in Biharis’ life as the missing piece of the puzzle. All empty spaces filled and puzzle solved, what is the problem then - one may ask?
Well, the problem is in returning the favour to Binodini. And thus begins the emotional saga which drowns them all and as they grapple with the hearts innermost desires and self-righteousness they discover they have all changed beyond recognition.
Binodini is portrayed as the main architect behind the turmoil that sweeps the lives of the other three. But the beauty lies in the fact that even though seen as the troublemaker – one cannot help but feel for her. The narration is from an onlooker’s perspective however every now and then it peeps into the character’s mind to reveal the deepest emotions in its barest form – which makes it a beautiful experience and one is forced to think how commonly and easily the heart rules over mind and influences every detail of our being..
The flow of language, in this translated version, may seem a bit patchy to the readers however, being familiar with Bengali I could imagine the depth and the beauty of the prose - both in meaning and in the layout. This is a cue for me to learn to read Bengali in order for me to enjoy more of Tagore’s original work and that nothing is lost in translation.
It is also necessary to point out that the translator had identified this problem before taking up this courageous task and states in the foreword that ‘between the two alternatives of taking liberties with the original in order to make the reading smooth for the reader and of rendering it faithfully, even at the cost of some obscurity and of inviting the charge that the translation is in places un-English, the translator has chosen the latter, in the hope that the intelligent reader would prefer grappling with the authentic to being entertained by the spurious.’
So hats off to Krishna Kripalani on that account.
Overall, it is not the language or the storyline but the representation of the interplay of human feelings with one another, so subtle yet so profound, that is appealing.
Here’s one of my favourite paras from the book –
‘He sat for a long time lost in thought. Then he re-read the letter two or three times. What was like a distant shadow was gradually assuming a concrete shape. The comet which had previously seemed like a dim speck in a corner of his life’s horizon now blazed its fiery tail across the sky.
The letter was indeed Binodini’s, though the simple-minded Asha had penned it as her own. Listening to Binodini’s dictation she had actually begun to feel the sentiments expressed therein. It was as if the dumbness within her had become articulate. Binodini’s words gave form to her own undefined pain, a pain she was conscious of but was unable to express. She said to herself, “what a wonderful friend to guess the secret of my heart and to mirror it so faithfully and so well!” Her devotion to Binodini was doubled; she felt more than ever dependent on one who provided the vehicle to her inmost thoughts.
Mahendra rose from the chair. His brow was clouded. He tried to be angry with Binodini but the more he tried the more annoyed he became with Asha instead. “What a nit-wit!” he chafed. “How trying for the husband!” He sank back into the chair and read the letter once again. Each time he read it he felt a secret thrill of pride and elation. He tried his best to imagine that what he was reading was Asha’s but found it impossible to do so. As soon as he had read a couple of lines a delicious suspicion bubbled up like foaming wine, wiping out the image of Asha. He was intoxicated by the prospect of a love, at once hidden and articulate, forbidden and forthcoming, poisonous and sweet, a love that was both a surrender and a challenge. He wished he could strike himself with a knife or do something drastic to break the spell of this intoxication and to divert his mind elsewhere. He banged his fist on the table and jumping up from his chair exclaimed, “Hang it all, I’ll burn the letter!” He brought the letter near the lamp but instead of burning it, re-read it once again.
When the servant cleaned the room the next morning, he found plenty of ashes lying about. They were not the relics of Asha’s letter but of the several unfinished replies which Mahendra attempted at night!’