Image & Narrative contributed by Jayabrato Chatterjee, Kolkata
My earliest memories were borne back in Dehradun (now in Uttarakhand), where I spent my childhood with my mother, Meera Chatterjee, my maternal grandmother, Kamala Bisi and my Jethu, Rathi Jethu (Bengali term for father’s elder brother), Rathindra Nath Tagore. Jethu was Rabindra Nath Tagore’s second child & eldest son.
Those were the first eleven and most impressionable years of my childhood. I still remember the rattle of the Dehradun Express that would carry us back to our home in the valley, away from the bustle and noise of Calcutta (now Kolkata).
Jethu had left his home in Calcutta to come and live in Dehradun with my family. It was Jethu, who had allotted me a garden patch in Mitali, our home at 189/A Rajpur Road, Dehradun and asked me to tend it with care. He even bought me gardening tools, a pair of sears and a watering can. And as I had held his finger tightly, he had led me through the nursery, pointing out names of flowers usually associated with an English garden – Phlox, Larkspurs, Hollyhocks, Ladies lace, Nasturtium, Sweet-peas, Crocuses, Azaleas and Narcissi.
Mitali our home was sheltered by the Himalayas, by the Shivalik ranges that were a riot of Mary Palmers, Crimson hibiscuses and sprawling lawns flanked by flower beds down five cobbled steps. I remember watching the shooting stars that raced across the sky at twilight. Mitali was Ochre in colour, with six large bedrooms, two kitchens, garages, servants’ quarters and a tin shed near the Mango and Lichi orchards where our cows Shyama and Julie – mooed and Koeli, the Tibetan terrier, barked her head off. Beyond the shed lay a wire-meshed chicken barn crowded with cackling Leghorns and a Black Minorca rooster who at the crack of dawn would awaken Ghanshyam, the mali (gardner) with a start. And pervading through the garden was, of course, Jethu’s voice, gently instructing the gardeners with a voice so civilised and kind that all were bound to pay attention to words spoken with equal measure to one and all.
Born on November 27, 1888, Jethu was sent by his father, Rabindranath Tagore, in 1906, to the University of Illinois to study Agriculture and where he was instrumental in starting the now famous Cosmopolitan Club. Jethu’s interests were varied and eclectic.
My strongest memories remain of him bent over a block of wood in the afternoons, by the light of a dull electric bulb, diligently inlaying it with intricate chips of ebony and ivory or shaping it into a beautiful jewellery box, a pen holder or a coffee table. He was usually assisted by a skilled and slightly cross-eyed Sikh carpenter named Bachan Singh – who would also let me chip away at a redundant wedge with a miniature saw and shape it into building blocks that I would later colour.
On my fifth birthday, Jethu presented me with a wonderful wooden steed he had made – a cross between a rocking horse and a miniature pony – complete with stirrups and a comfortable seat. He had placed him strategically on springs so that I could ride the foal to my heart’s content without falling off. For a while this charger became the love of my life and only if I was feeling generous would I share it with Bugga, the janitor’s son, who was my best friend. Bugga was snotty-nosed & mischief-laden who knew where the parrots would nest for the summer or where we could find caterpillars and tadpoles during the monsoons. He had also charmed members of Mitali by doing an impeccable act on Ravan, watched at the local Ramleela. I too would slip out at night, without my mother or Jethu finding out, with my ayah, Kanchi Ama, and walk at least two miles guided by the moon to the Ramleela grounds where the local servants metamorphosed into delectable actors. The Ramleela was certainly the high point of my Dusserah holidays when I came home from my boarding school and delighted in watching Langra Karesan, another servant, snivel through his performance as Sita in one of my mother’s old chiffon sarees.
I was hell-bent on becoming an actor too. So I’d sing my way through most of Balmiki Pratibha (an Opera penned by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore, Jethu’s father) exclusively for Jethu’s pleasure. My reward was a set of wonderful wooden swords that he crafted for me and the next time we went to Calcutta, Bhola babu, who was the manager at Jorasanko, was instructed by Jethu to buy me a dacoit’s costume, complete with a pair of false mustachios, and take me to see the Great Russian Circus. On rain-filled evenings he would sit me on his lap, play his Esraj (Indian Harp) at Santiniketan, lovingly running the bow on the strings, and teach me to sing songs whose meanings I’m still discovering – Oi ashono toley; Roop shagorey doob diyechhi; Amaarey tumi oshesh korechho and Kholo kholo dwaar.
Winter holidays in Calcutta were never complete without a dinner with Ma and Jethu at Skyroom on Park Street and a special Sunday lunch at the Firpo’s on Chowringhee. My table manners – taught to me at Mitali – came in handy. It was Jethu who showed me the difference between a fish and a carving knife, between a salad and a quarter plate, a pastry and a regular fork; he showed me how to use the various items of the Mappin & Webb silver cutlery that had been arranged at table and insisted that I washed and wore clean clothes for dinner, ate my soup without slurping and consumed the rest of the meal with my mouth closed and a napkin spread over my lap. Lunch at home was typically Bengali, consisting of the usual rice, dal, shukto and a fish or meat curry. But dinner, sharp at 7.30 pm, was always European, served with flourish, item by item, by Jethu’s personal valet, Bahadur, at the formal dining room on Royal Doulton crockery. It was pleasure to see Jethu peel an apple at breakfast with great ceremony and elegance. Now when I look back, in fact every meal that I remember having with him was an art.
During my childhood it was very fashionable to host tea parties. Jethu had inducted Ma into sipping the most fragrant of Darjeeling teas – the delicately-scented Flowery Orange Pekoe. He was also a wonderful cook and often baked me a cake for my birthday. Some evenings, he would walk into the kitchen and stir up a mean Shepherd’s Pie and a fluffy mango soufflé. And when the orchards in Mitali had a surplus of Guavas, he would make the best Guava jelly that I have ever tasted.
A variety of celebrated invitees and house guests came to dinner – like Uncle Leonard (Leonard Elmhirst), Pankaj Mullick & Suchitra Mitra, legendary musicians, to scientist, Satyendra Nath Bose on his way to Mussoorie, Pandit Nehru (who often visited Dehra), Lady Ranu, Buri Mashi and Krishna Mesho (Nandita and Krishna Kripalani). I clearly remember the performance of a play, Pathan, by Prithviraj Kapoor and his troupe who had come to Dehra Dun. Jethu was invited to the show as Chief Guest and Ma and I had accompanied him. The next evening the players were invited to dinner at home. In the cast were Sati Mashi (whose daughter Ruma-di was then married to Kishore Kumar) and the very young and handsome Shammi and Shashi Kapoor who turned many feminine heads at the reception. But Prithviraj-ji, affectionately known as Papaji, insisted on sitting at Jethu’s feet throughout the evening, much to Jethu’s embarrassment. He just wouldn’t budge and kept saying, ‘How can I have the arrogance to sit next to Gurudev Rabindranath’s son?’ He dragged me by my hand and had me sit on his lap, ruffling my hair as he talked to other guests.
Jethu and Ma had formed a cultural organisation – Rabindra Samsad – and many plays and dance dramas by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore were performed by its members. Ma was a veteran actress, having played Rani Sudershana, (a name that Gurudev Tagore would address her by thereafter) in Rakta Karabi and Rani Lokeshwari in Natir Puja, all directed by Gurudev in Santiniketan. Ma was his favourite actress.
So watching Jethu too direct her in Bashikaran, Lokkhir Porikhha and Chirokumar Sabha was, for me, a treat. Ma as well, directed Natir Puja with my sister playing Ratnabali, Ritu Ranga & Bhanushingher Padavali and a children’s play, Tak-duma-dum, scripted by Jethu’s aunt, Jnanadanandini Debi, where I played the lead as the wily jackal! Rabindra Samsad held regular musical soirees and showed Bengali films. My introduction to Satyajit Ray’s Debi (Devi) and Pather Panchali happened in the faraway Dehradun’s Prabhat cinema. Encouraged to participate in all the cultural events was for me, a huge education.
Jethu was also an ardent painter and spent long hours at his easel, working on beautiful water-coloured landscapes and delicate flower studies. Sometimes Ma painted along with him and also crafted many items via the complex art of Batik. My mother’s Batik parasols and slippers were greatly admired as were her exclusive batik stoles and sarees. I can still remember the smell of melting wax and feel my fingers stained again with several colours.
The relationship Ma shared with Jethu was not something that his father, Gurudev Tagore was aware of. Gurudev died in 1941 while their relationship must have begun somewhere around 1948. With accusing whispers Jethu was deserted both by his colleagues in Santiniketan and his family members. There was a 30-year age difference between Ma & Jethu but I would describe their relationship as being very respectful & tender. Having seen Ma and Jethu together and having grown up with them in Dehradun, I know what this relationship meant to them. Most of his life Jethu had felt lonely and misunderstood, but in Ma he had found a great companion.
One of Jethu’s other favourite hobbies was making perfumes that were later filled into the most delicate glass-blown bottles that I had ever seen. He’d gift Ma a different fragrance on her birthdays. Many a mornings would be spent combining the scents and concentrates of flowers like roses, juhi and mogra that came all the way from Ujjain in Madhya Pradesh. He’d leave no stones unturned till he got the aroma right, pulling away at his cigarette – either Three Castles or John Peel or Abdulla Imperial. His perfume bottles became coveted possessions for all those who were lucky enough to receive them. Usually, after the Rabindra Samsad shows, there would be lively cast parties at Mitali and the actors and singers waited with baited breaths till Jethu gave them a bottle of scent as a parting present.
Around my Jethu, light-footed and non-intrusive, virtually like the fragrance of the golden champaka blossoms that he loved so dearly, an innate sense of aesthetics kept vigil. His impeccable sense of coutour, interior decor, landscaping and gardening lent to his persona.
The last ten years of his life and the first ten years of mine were, for both of us, absolutely golden. But when he died at the age of 73 in June of 1961, Mitali or even I could never be the same again without its kind and gentle prince, my beloved foster father. Yet, as I write today, I drift back to the enchantment that was my childhood spent in Jethu’s benign shadow. And in the splendoured story of my Ma and Jethu, I re-live the most civilized, glorious and compassionate friendship that I will ever care to remember.
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This Post Has 10 Comments
Suchintya Chattaraj23 Feb 2023
Somewhere,in the deepest core of my heart,I feel a kind of pain for Rathindranath,an indescribable mental agony for this gentle yet lonely soul.
The article has made a healing effect upon my soul.
Raman Selvaraj27 Aug 2022
The inspiring tell tale of Rabindra nath Tagore by his elder brother’s son was awesome and caught my imagination and spell bound to read all of his writings.
Abhijit Mukhopadhyay25 Dec 2021
My fascination with Rabindranath’s works and Rathindranath’s life has always been boundless. Rabindranath is God to me and Rathindranath a complete man. The invaluable Bengali book ” Tomar adhar tomar alo” by Nabakumar Basu has ignited a passionate love and imprinted an indelible respect in my heart for this man extraordinary.
The almost surreal narrative of Jayabrata Chatterjee has now added another dimension to my love and respect for Rathindranath Tagore.
Mallika7 Jul 2021
This was such a wonderful read. My uncle Dr S Brahmachari worked very closely with Rathin Babu in Dehra Dun and we have heard such wonderful stories from him. Your account of your childhood and of Rathin babu is so vivid and your memories are so evocative .
Satyasri Ukil28 Oct 2013
My maternal grandfather Mukul Dey was a student of Santiniketan Brahmacharyashrama from c. 1906 till 1912. He was a very close friend of Shamindranath Tagore, Rathindranath’s younger brother, who passed away in Mungher (Bihar) in 1907.
Mukul Dey (1895 – 1989) enjoyed warm friendship of Rathindranath as well. In our family home at Santiniketan we have a number of wooden boxes made by Rathindranath Tagore. We also have some of his correspondence to Mukul Dey and his wife Bina. These papers much illuminate Rathi-babu’s personality from another angle.
Around mid-1950s Mukul Dey was in charge of the National Gallery of Modern Art in New Delhi after Herman Goetz, and during his own tenure there, had purchased a number of Rabindranath Tagore’s paintings on behalf of NGMA. We still have the inland-letter card wherein Rathindranath offered his father’s paintings for sale to NGMA. Around same time, Rathindranath’s solo exhibition was organized at the All India Fine Arts and Crafts Society with the active interest of Barada Ukil and Mukul Dey.
From these private correspondence and other papers, it becomes somewhat clear that Rathindranath Tagore’s life at Rajpur, Dehradun, had its own hardships as well, when he sought Mukul Dey’s help in his dealings with NGMA.
Rathindranath expired at Dehradun only a few weeks after his father’s centenary was celebrated throughout the world with much admiration, pomp and show. He was a forgotten man in those festivities. While at Santiniketan, everybody rallied around Pratima Devi…Rathindranath died a lonely death far away.
There are some elements of speculation about circumstances leading to Rathindranath Tagore’s death, which may please be clarified if possible.
Satyasri Ukil27 Oct 2013
Many thanks for sharing such precious and candid reminiscence with all…I really appreciate that!
Thanks to Rupamanjari Biswas for her equally precious comment.
Kamalika17 Aug 2013
Such a delightful read..treasured memories for sure!
Rupamanjari Biswas4 Jul 2013
A very touching piece. I sent it to Biblida(Sandip Tagore). This is his response: “Hope this finds you well. Many thanks for the piece on RathiDa by his ‘foster son’ . Brings back memories. In 1953, during summer vacation ( VB., Santiniketan) I was staying at our family estate Tagore Villa, Dehradun. SudhirDa (Khastagir ) had kindly arranged my first solo art show at Doon School where he was art teacher. Shyamali was so young and a constant Tagore Villa visitor with her father. Biruda( Amitendranath Tagore) was teaching Chinese then at the Dehradun military academy.
Badsha ( Sumitendranath Tagore ) my close friend/cousin and I (Sandip Tagore) were invited by RathiDa (Rathindranath Tagore) at his lovely house situated on the main road to Mussouri. Meeradi ( my Kalabhavan mate :Gouridi-Jamunadi’s handicraft section) was there with her little son who was introduced to us as ‘ my son’ by RathiDa. We were treated to wonderful reminiscences of RathiDa and the most delicious chicken curry he personally cooked for our dinner. He was a great cook: I had many breakfasts / lunches with him and PratimaDi at Uttarayan/ Santiniketan between 1950 and 1954.
During my ‘ sketching flowers and plants’ sessions in the Japanese Garden of Uttarayan I often found RathiDa and Meera Chatterji (Jayeeta’s mother) together in and out of his studio surrounded/covered by his mango and other leafy fruit ‘creepers’ laden with luscious ripe fruits. His botanical experiments. His woodcraft was of the highest level. A real artist he was.
Please read his autobiography On The Edges Of Time.”
Amitava Bose3 Jul 2013
This was very nice, Mithu.
Tapas Basu2 Jul 2013
Atuloniya…aar bhaasaa nei bolaar …