University of West Sydney
The way questions of gender and sexuality play out in Rabindranath Tagore’s texts has long been on the radar. His oeuvre is regarded proto-feminist at times, while on other occasions Tagore is seen as a writer who stops on the threshold of actualizing the final breakthrough of his own subversive gender discourse. Santosh Chakraborti, in his book Studies in Tagore: Critical Essays, compares him to Thomas Hardy in this regard. Both Tagore and Hardy, according to Chakraborti, are marked by an ‘uneven feminism’ (Chakrabarti, S. (2004); p.6) wavering from one text to another. Sexual politics in Tagore’s work is an integral part of the larger socio-political backdrop of the early twentieth century. Niharranjan Ray, in his Rabindrashahityer Bhumika, suggests Tagore was influenced by the Western discourses regarding women’s struggle for social justice; Santosh Chakraborti makes the point that this feminism is informed by the twentieth-century ideals of individualism.
This article seeks to handle a neglected aspect of Tagore’s presentation of women and examine whether it can become a site for negotiating the complexities of his attitude towards them. Ranjana Ash, in the article ‘Introducing Tagore in Multicultural Education in Britain,’ passingly refers to this strand; ‘Nashtanirh’ [‘The Broken Nest’], serialized at the same time as Chokher Bali, embodies another quality of Tagore’s women characters: their determination to develop their creative gifts’ (Ash, R. (1989); p.151).
I would underline the trajectory of writing in this path of creative gifts; my point of departure being Ranjana Ash’s comment on Charu in ‘Nashtanirh’: ‘Literary talent is neither comfort nor compensation in such a situation’ (Ibid.). In the trajectory of feminine writing in Tagore, there is something more at stake than the ‘literary.’ This writing is not only literary but also a fundamental expression of feminine desire; and as an expression of feminine desire through language, this writing creates an opening into an order, potentially outside of patriarchy. This is where the expression may be both ‘comfort’ and ‘compensation.’ In her article ‘A Sentimental Education: Love and Marriage in The Home and The World,’ Supriya Chaudhuri makes a significant comment on Bimala: ‘Her desire for a lost unity or integrity of being which she associates with the past, with her mother’s life’ (Chaudhuri, S. (2003); p.50). She further observes that inasmuch as Bimala’s ‘emotional history … is predicated upon this sense of lack, it may be read as a history of desire’ (Ibid.; p.51). According to Supriya Chaudhuri, Bimala’s desire returns upon itself instead of being ‘directed towards husband or lover’ (Ibid.). If we generalize and expand this view we can propose that feminine desire tends to fall back on itself instead of being sustained by specific external objects—like the husband or the lover, each of whom are implicated in the patriarchal structure of relational positions. In my view the self-enclosed nature of feminine desire triggers a movement beyond the patriarchal arrangement. The writing, which expresses this desire, is unmistakably feminine and I would argue that it goes as far as to the liminal point of patriarchy. In this reading I will see both the self-enclosure and the opening of feminine desire in writing as it makes an effort to open itself to its sexual Other—namely the man.
In this article I will examine the figure of the writing woman and by extension the sphere of feminine writing as expressed in three of Tagore’s short stories: ‘Khata’ [‘The Exercise Book’], ‘Nashtanirh’ [‘The Broken Nest’] and ‘Streer Patra’ [‘The Letter from the Wife’]. In all three stories we encounter a number of women writers, and their writing is placed right against the sphere of male writing. This sphere of writing, in these stories, becomes a trope for exploring the man-woman relationship and involves an asymptotic dialogue of two absolutely different kinds of writing. The overlap of the textual and the sexual is extended from the thematic to a larger tropological level where parts of the text or even the whole text (as in ‘Streer Patra’) functions as an alternative feminine discourse of subversion.
In Tagore’s short stories the female characters often produce disturbing silences when they encounter the articulations of masculine desire. In ‘Postmaster,’ Ratan remains silent when the postmaster tells her that he will never return to Ulapur. Tagore fuses this moment of silence with the image of a leak on the thatched roof of the postmaster’s house. The image makes the lack in their relation explicit. I would claim that the silence of Tagore’s women is not submissive: it bores holes in man’s understanding. This silence is not a pristine outside to language but rather a break in discourse, itself gradually mutating into a discourse. Tagore contrasts man’s theoretical inclination with a woman’s non-theoretical bent of mind by juxtaposing the theorizations of the postmaster while leaving on boat with Ratan’s obsessive circulation around the postmaster’s house. When the man is busy philosophizing, a woman responds through her wordless affective action. The narrator comments on this action—’Kintu Rataner mone kono tatyer uday hoilo na’ [‘But no such theory emerged in Ratan’s mind’] (Tagore, R. (2002); p.17). The non-theoretical realm is like a blank page on which the postmaster can only try and force an explanation—‘Bodh kari tahar mone khin asha jagitechhilo, dadababu jadi phiriya ashe’ [‘Perhaps there was still a faint hope in her mind that dadababu might come back’] (Ibid.). This is a forced interpretation, projected from the male position. Encountering his own incomprehension of feminine desire, man tries to supplement the lack by supposing an interpretation. The interpretation in this particular story bases itself on feminine dependence and an idea of ‘sympathy’ that makes a victim of her.
In the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan’s teachings, the most crucial difference between man and woman is that while the former is wholly cut by the Symbolic, i.e. language, the woman is partially cut by the signifier. Though both men and women are, for Lacan, divided subjects qua language, the division is never a whole in the case of the woman, and as a result there is more of the Real, or that which resists linguistic symbolization, in her. This makes the ‘the woman’ somewhat problematic, and Lacan marks her non-generalizable singularity with the expression ‘not all’ or ‘not whole’ [‘pas tout’]. This is the discourse which culminates in the famous Lacanian maxim—‘There is no such thing as Woman; Woman with a capital W indicating the universal’ (Lacan, J. (1998); p.72). As Lacan would say there are women but no Woman: in his 20th seminar in 1972-73, On Feminine Sexuality: The Limits of Love and Knowledge, while talking about the function of the written, Lacan says:
A man is nothing but a signifier. A woman seeks out a man qua signifier. A man seeks out a woman qua – and this will strike you as odd – that which can only be situated through discourse, since, if what I claim is true – namely, that woman is not-whole – there is always something in her that escapes discourse (Ibid.; p.33).
Although there is more of the Real in a woman than there is in the man, the only way she can try and reach out to the man is through the signifier. This is what activates the field of feminine writing in its relation to the loved one. If there is female silence as dissidence in Tagore, there is a counter-discourse of female writing as well. Chandara’s enigmatic last word ‘maran’ [‘death’] before her capital punishment in the story ‘Shasti’ [‘Punishment’] is an instance of a supplementary woman-speak. When asked whether she wants to see her husband Chhidam, one last time before being put to death, Chandara’s articulation of the signifier ‘death’ collapses the idiomatic valence of this word as a rustic expression of disgust. The idiom is de-idiomatized and made literal. And it is this literality of the word ‘maran’ that escapes patriarchal comprehension. Uma in ‘Khata,’ Mrinal in ‘Streer Patra’ and Charulata in ‘Nashtanirh’ are all writers in their own right and it is their writing that contests patriarchal literary authority.
The first line of ‘Khata’ declares that little Uma, learning how to write, creates ‘upodrob’ [‘tremendous trouble’] (Tagore, R. (2002); p.163) for one and all in the family. She writes on the walls of the house—‘Jal pare, pata Nare’ [‘Rain patters, leaves flutter,’ in William Radice’s translation] (Ibid.). Finding a copy of The Secret Adventures of Haridas under the pillow of her brother’s wife, she writes ‘Kalo Jal, lal phul’ [‘Black water, red flower’] (Ibid.) on multiple pages of the book. On her father’s notebook of daily expenses, she inscribes—‘Lekhapara kare jei, garighora chare shei’ [‘He who learns to write/Drives a horse and cart,’ in Radice’s translation] (Ibid.). With the exception of the first of these examples, where Uma writes on a surface which is blank, albeit non-writable, in all the other cases, her writing is a supplement added to a pre-existing text, be it The Secret Adventures of Haridas or the ‘daily expense’ notebook of her father. This marks her writing straightaway with a rhetoric of intervention. Her scribbles on all the almanacs in the house almost end up obliterating the pre-existing text which has an intrinsically providential character. The other crucial detail about her childish writing is her use of non-sense verses which again opens up the non-theoretical realm. Her lines on her father’s notebook are counterpointed with his numerical figures and the materialist thesis of education proposed in these lines (‘He who learns to write/Drives a horse and cart’) may well be seen as a banter of his financial meticulousness. The girl-child’s deprivation of higher education adds yet another ironic dimension to these lines. The Secret Adventures of Haridas is a sensational if not scandalous book written by Bhubonchandra Mukhopadhyay in 1903, representing life at Sonagachhi, one of the oldest red-light districts in Kolkata. Uma’s lines, referring to beautifully red flowers on slimy water, thus become an empathizing symbolic commentary on the condition of these public women.
This writing process climaxes when Uma scribbles on elder brother Gobindolal’s scientific article. Gobindolal’s writing here is the contrastive frame of male writing, strictly located within the rational sphere of discursive public writing. The narrator undercuts Gobindolal’s thinking by commenting that his article attacks the Western scientific precepts, not so much on the basis of logic, but merely by the means of a ‘romanchokar bhasha’ [‘exuberance of his language’ in Radice] (Ibid.). She writes in a big font on top of this piece—‘Gopal boro bhalo chhele, tahake ja deoa jay she tahai khay’ [‘So well-behaved is young Gopal/Whatever you give he eats it well,’ in Radice] (Ibid.). This line, alluding to Ishvarchandra Vidyasagar, is yet another of Uma’s ironic laughs directed at the male culture of writing. All these lines evoke an ideology of feminine inscription which subverts the male stress on scientific rationality with poetic interventionism. The apparent senselessness of Uma’s scribbles contests the male tradition of argumentative writing. This is not nonsense but non-sense. This writing maximizes the symbolic repertoires of the Symbolic order of language but this maximization of symbolism in this case delves into non-sense and obfuscates integral transmission. It is in this hyper-symbolic unreadability that this writing breaks with patriarchal reason.
Gobindolal trounces Uma for writing on his article and confiscates her pen as well. We should note here that it is none other than Gobindolal who eventually returns her exercise book to her, after being moved to repentance. So, the exercise book is re-circulated from within patriarchy; it is seen as the compromise of a consolation prize, inscribed within the patriarchal field. Uma’s poetic etchings continue as she appropriates the exercise book—‘Pakhi shab kare rab, rati pohailo’ [‘Birds are singing, Night is ending,’ in Radice’s rendering] (Ibid.). Her first expression of love is ‘Yashike ami khub bhalobashi’ [‘I love Yashi very much’] (Ibid.; p.164), written once again as an additament to the ‘Story of the Tiger and the Crane’ in Kathamala, copied again in her exercise book. This first expression, significantly, is not about some young boy, but their old maid. The word ‘love’ applied outside the family for the first time, refers to a woman and when the second proper name in relation to love appears in the ‘khata,’ it is ‘Hari.’ Tagore’s narrator promptly points out that it is not ‘Haricharan’ but ‘Haridashi,’ her school-friend. It is once again the name of a woman and not that of a man. After one year, when Uma is married off to Pyarimohon, the assistant-writer of Gobindolal, the note of patriarchal prohibition is clear in Gobindolal’s words—‘… Pyarimohoner kono lekhar upore khabardar kalam chalash ne’ [‘… And make sure you do not scrawl on any of Pyarimohon’s writings,’ in Radice] (Ibid.).
It is Yashi who takes her exercise book to her in-laws’ abode. The exercise book by this time has become an object of nostalgia—something that reminds Uma of her origin. It has become ‘pitamatar ankosthalir ekti shankhipto itihash’ [‘a brief record of parental affection,’ in Radice] for her (Ibid.). At her in-laws’ house the exercise book becomes the sole witness to her fundamental desire for returning to her mother. It becomes an intensely personal space outside social gaze where she can inscribe her purest desires in singular expressions. But finally her scribbling falls prey to the eyes of her sisters-in-law—Tilakmanjari, Kanakmanjari and Anangamanjari, names emerging straight from fairy tales. When this news reaches Pyarimohon, his reaction echoes the typical patriarchal dialectic between the aesthetic and public functions of writing a novel or a play and the domestic sphere wherein the supposedly real function of the woman lies. That the writing itself can inhabit a deeply domestic space in a gendered and existential sense, goes well beyond him. He mocks Uma by evoking the idea of a working woman going to the office with her pen. As against the simple non-theoretical bent of Uma’s writing, Tagore builds up an idiosyncratic theoretical register of male thought. He refers to Pyarimohon’s peculiar theory that if a woman becomes educated and starts to work, she virtually becomes a man and two men can never constitute a proper domestic structure. What is crucial about this theory is its pseudo-liberal and hegemonic nature. It pretends to argue against the defeminization of women and seems to maintain that an all-male domination is unhealthy for the domestic space. And yet this theory remains subtly regressive by continuing to limit women to a domestic space, from which writing, conceived as the public discourse of male prestige, is banished forever. Tagore’s women may not join an uprising against the sexist hierarchy of the private and public spaces qua the practice of writing, but they nevertheless appropriate that delimited space and make their presence felt through their signifiers.
The climax arrives when Uma is tremendously moved by the ‘agomonir gan’ or ‘the homecoming-song’ of Uma-Parvati, sung by a beggar-woman, one autumn morning. It is her act of copying this song in her ‘khata’ that spells doom for her. She has to part with her ‘khata’ and the text in it provokes great laughter in her sisters-in-law. In this last occurrence, Tagore uses the myth of Uma, one of the aspects of the great Indian Goddess, lord Shiva’s wife and someone who can be the gentle Parvati as well as the fiercely destructive Kali. It is the polymorphous nature of this mythical figure that contests the patriarchal strategy of feminine stereotyping. The mythical is used here as a counterpoint to the masculinist rhetoric of linear rationality. This mythification of Uma is rendered exclusively at the level of writing and the source of it is a typically feminine speech-act of the beggar-woman. The beggar-woman here can be seen as Julia’s Kristeva’s figure of the ‘abject’ (Kristeva, J. (1982) ; p.521), operating outside the domain of the masculinist social hierarchy of language. Pyarimohon’s response to his, reading the lyrics of the song from Uma’s exercise book, is not recorded in the story. This crucial omission in Tagore’s text tears an enigmatic hole in the established repository of masculine knowledge. Pyarimohon cannot unpack the truth in Uma’s circuit of desire. It hides beneath a garb of inconsequentiality, embedded in the mythic symbolism of the ‘agomonir gan.’ As Tagore’s narrator clarifies in the last sentence of the story, even Pyarimohon has an exercise book but it is completely different from Uma’s. It is the domain of his subtle theories of the world and there are no sensible persons around who would take it from him or destroy it.
If ‘Khata’ is interspersed with the poetic etchings of Uma, the entire text of ‘Streer Patra’ is a feminine discourse in an epistolary form. Though at the level of this form, it is a personal communication, Mrinalini’s discourse, unlike Uma’s, is an appropriation of the rational, argumentative and supposedly male discourse. Right at the outset, Mrinal clarifies that her need to write a letter to the husband is triggered by the ‘phank’ (Ibid.) or gap between the two of them. In the story, the epistle or the letter functions in this gap between the man and a woman, much like the man-woman relationship in Lacan, which can only be addressed through the edifice of the signifier in its localized structure, i.e. the letter. Mrinal is on a pilgrimage to Puri while her husband is back in Kolkata, doing his office work. She also states that this is not a letter from their ‘mejobou’ but from a woman who has an independent relation with the world and its creator. As she maintains, death will not take her away because it only takes away those who have some value and being a woman she is hardly considered valuable. The letter thus, is also a declaration of her deathlessness. The thesis of deathlessness is ironically juxtaposed with her death wish. Mrinal’s letter also declares suicide. It is her first, last, and only letter to her husband.
Mrinal’s beauty has its takers in the house of the in-laws but no real appreciation; they are most resentful towards her intellect. She secretly writes poems but nobody knows that she is a poet. Her poetic writings constitute a singular subjective space where her feminine identity flourishes outside the paradigms of patriarchy—‘… shekhane tomader andarmahaler panchil otheni. Sheikhanei amar mukti; sheikhanei ami ami’ [‘… at least there the boundary wall of the inner compound could not stop me. There lay my freedom, there I could be myself,’ in Prasenjit Gupta’s translation] (Ibid.; p.522). Mrinal appropriates the theoretical register of male discourse when she philosophizes about neglect. She observes that it is better for a woman to be neglected than to be cared for. Since the arrangement of patriarchy is always directed towards female suffering, the passing phases of care only increase the sorrows of suffering.
The real event, founding Mrinal’s subjectivity, is the arrival of Bindu [meaning a ‘tiny speck’ in Bengali], a fourteen-year-old girl, exploited by her brothers, in her maternal house. She is the sister of Mrinal’s eldest sister-in-law. Mrinal fosters this ordinary girl, who quickly becomes an eyesore for the whole family, including her own elder sister. Everyone is keen to humiliate her out of the house. Be it some red spots on her skin, immediately judged as chicken-pox or the allegation during the Swadeshi movement that she is a police-spy, everyone in the family, except Mrinal, is in constant attempt to banish or excuse her. Mrinal uses the expression ‘o je Bindu’ [‘After all, it was Bindu’] (Ibid.; p.525) repeatedly to indicate that her (wo)manhandling is premised on her singular identity as a gendered subject. The absolute singularity of her subjectivity is marked by the proper name ‘Bindu’ which hovers towards the common noun where the word signifies a tiny little speck in the horizons of sight. Patriarchy’s problem with a woman lies exactly where she is named in a singular way as the Real woman, where Bindu is the Real Bindu.
The Mrinal-Bindu relationship in ‘Streer Patra’ is an identificatory relation which is inscribed entirely on the feminine axis and I suggest it can be seen as a compensation for Mrinal’s failed motherhood. It is part of the entire field of woman-identified experiences Adrienne Rich calls the ‘lesbian continuum’ in her 1980 essay ‘Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence.’ This is how Rich defines the ‘lesbian continuum’:
I mean the term lesbian continuum to include a range–through each woman’s life and throughout history–of woman-identified experience; not simply the fact that a woman has had or consciously desired genital sexual experience with another woman (Rich, A. (2010); online).
In her letter, Mrinal gives an analogy of heterosexual love for their relation, at least from Bindu’s side—‘Bhalobashar erakam murti sangshare to konodin dekhini. Boiete porechhi bote, sheo meyepurusher modhye’ [‘I have never seen such an embodiment of love in real life; I’ve read of it in books, of this kind of intense attachment, and, there too, between men and women’] (Tagore, R. (2002); p.525). Marriage finally becomes the strategy of displacing Bindu within the household. Bindu does not want to leave Mrinal but Mrinal knows that in her absence there would be no one to take care of her. On the other hand, the exploitations that this ‘ugly’ girl may have to face in her in-laws’ house rankles her greatly.
Bindu gets married finally but it transpires that her husband is ‘mad’ and it is her mother-in-law who forced this marriage against the wish of her father-in-law, who himself has left on a pilgrimage to Kashi. Although the figure of the mad husband is left like a narrative tangent, the idea of madness signifies a social otherness analogous to the Othering of women in the patriarchal arrangement. After an eventful passage of time, when Mrinal plans an escape for Bindu with the help of her younger brother Sharat, he returns only to communicate the news of her suicide. As Sharat reports, Bindu has burnt herself to death—a so-called ‘fashionable’ way of dying. Incidentally, Bindu had also written a letter to Mrinal but it was destroyed by her in-laws. Mrinal’s letter, which forms the entire text of this short story is, as it were, a reinforcement of Bindu’s missing letter.
Towards the end of the story Mrinal contemplates death in general and her own death in particular. She sees it in the offing as she stands at the Puri Beach, looking out into the vast expanse of sea. This writing on death becomes a transgressive political strategy of feminine emancipation. Death in its universality far surpasses the social terrain of patriarchy. It is that which goes beyond all cultural specificities and gives a generic feminine identity to a woman—‘Mrityu tomader cheye boro…shekhane Bindu kebol khurtuto bhaier bon noy, kebol aparichito pagol shamir prabanchito stri noy. Shekhane she anonto’ [‘Death was stronger. In her death Bindu has become great; she’s not a mere Bengali girl anymore, no more just a female cousin of her father’s nephews, no longer only a lunatic stranger’s deceived wife. Now she is without limits, without end’] (Ibid.; p.530). The movement from Bindu, a tiny speck, to the vast occean has an expansive semantic trajectory present within it. Death is the point of intersection between the finite speck and the infinite space of eternity. Let us also note how death crystalizes the unlimited and endless enigma of a woman which is consistent with Lacan’s point in Seminar XX that there exists a distinct feminine jouissance (a masochistic enjoyment, combining pain with pleasure, which orders the movement of desire) which is ‘supplementary’ in relation to the masculine one. This death, in Mrinal’s eyes, is only a celebration of life—‘Oi to mrityur hate jiboner joypataka urchhe’ [‘… but the proud standard of life flies from the hand of death!’] (Ibid.); it is death that binds Mrinal and Bindu in the final run. The reference to Mirabai’s song further extends the ‘lesbian continuum’ of all female identification. As the song demonstrates, when the father, the mother, and everyone else departs, there is always one thing (Mira herself in this case) that persists. Mrinal is in the process of removing everything in her embracing of death and yet something still remains after it, like an enduring urn of ashes. The letter to the husband suffices this remainder when everything else is stripped away. That is what matters. The letter, thus, ends with a triumphant assertion of death which has become life—‘Amio banchbo. Ami Banchlum’ [‘I too will be saved. I am saved’] (Ibid.; p.531). The incommunicable experience of death which resists linguistic codification is on the side of the Lacanian Real while the epistolary bridge of communication in a written form of desire, reinforces the Symbolic. In this joint of the Real and the Symbolic, we encounter the Lacanian impossibility of communicating with the Other sex without the meaning effect of the signifier.
Death, importantly enough, is the point where all writing has to stop. There can only be a writing on death or a writing which prefaces death. There can never be a writing of death. Therefore, Mrinal’s meditation on death is also a meditation on the limits of her own writing or in other words, on the limits of what can be written insofar as death is the unwritable per excellence. It is this beyond of the writable, the speakable and the thinkable that stumps patriarchy. Insofar as Mrinal’s letter embodies her death drive, like the supplementary feminine jouissance, it can only be experienced and cannot be interpreted. Patriarchy, like all other forms of totalitarian ideology, is built on a fantasmatic notion of the whole and I would claim that the point where death (of a woman) interrupts and even haunts this discourse is where this fantasy of the whole collapses. The death-point is a discourse in lack and it is impossible to totalize this point. It is in this sense that Lacan’s tragic heroine Antigone, in all her ‘splendour’ remains a complete enigma to the phallic law of Creon’s patriarchal city state. What is at stake in Sophocles’ play as well as Tagore’s story is a transgressive feminine jouissance driving the movement of a (s)heroic tragic desire.
‘Nashtanirh’ develops the paradigm of writing both thematically and tropologically in its view of the man-woman relationship. The trio of Bhupati, his young wife, Charulata and brother-in-law Amal is engaged in a circuit of desire that corresponds with the circuit of textuality, woven around them. Tagore contrasts the private sphere of feminine writing with the public sphere of male writing and questions the inherent sexism of this binary opposition. At the outset, we are told that Bhupati’s decision to edit an English newspaper is only driven by his ‘shakh’ or his whim (Ibid.; p.347). He does not need to write. It is the rhetorical lure of a public discourse that he cannot let go. Tagore reflects that the bar that alienates Charu from Bhupati is a ‘kagajer abaran’ [‘paper cover’] (Ibid.; p.348), which is another way of saying that the discursive space of writing surface produces an interval between the man and a woman instead of conjoining the two. We can translate this into Lacan’s (in)famous claim in Seminar XX that there is no such thing as a sexual relation because the phallic signifier incarnates the unbridgable gap between the two sexes and introduces a third element in speech instead of building a rapport of the two. Bhupati is always busy with his newspaper and does not have time for his wife and hence it is the writable surface of a page that stands between them. Charu has a taste for reading and that is how she spends her solitary time. Amal becomes Charu’s sole companion in her hours of solitude and they become great friends. It is their plan to make a garden out of the waste land in the interior of the house that opens up the tropes of private writing. Charu insists that Amal should write a story about all the planned details of this prospective garden and that story, once written, will only make sense to them—‘… amra dujone chhara keu bujhte parto na, besh maja hoto’ [‘… no one apart from just the two of us would have understood it; it would have been great fun’ in my translation] (Ibid.; p.351). Amal had started to scribble little pieces in his ‘khata’ long before. He soon shows Charu one of his scribbles. Importantly, this first piece is addressed to the virgin surface of a blank page, awaiting inscription.
When this piece, dedicated to the the exercise book, is published in a popular Bengali magazine ‘Shororuho,’ the private space of writing between Charu and Amal is invaded by the public one. This displeases Charu and more importantly, Amal cannot understand this displeasure—‘Amaler lekha Amal ar Charu dujoner shampatti. Amal lekhak ar Charu pathak. Tahar goponatai tahar pradhan rash. Shei lekha shakale poribe ebong anekei proshongsha koribe, ihate Charuke je keno etota pirha ditechhilo taha she bhalo koriya bujhilo na’ [‘Amal’s writing is the joint property of Amal and Charu. Amal is the writer and Charu the reader. Its secrecy is its primary quality. That writing will be read by all and even appreciated by quite a few—this thought was making Charu suffer. And why did this cause suffering, Amal could not even understand properly,’ in my translation] (Ibid.; p.353). Fan-mail begins to arriving and Charu soon loses her role as the singular motivator and reader of Amal’s writing.
Manda, Charu’s sister-in-law, is Amal’s other reader in the house and the more Amal wants to read his writings to Manda, the more it irritates Charu. It is to distinguish herself from Manda that she starts writing. Initially the literary spectre of Amal looms large on her and her piece on rain-clouds turns out to be an echo of Amal’s piece on the moon. She decides to change her subject to get rid of Amal’s influence and writes a piece called ‘Kalitala,’ drawing on her childhood memories of a place long lost in time. From the moon to the dark and mysterious temple of the goddess of destruction, Kali, the shift of subject suggests subversion. Amal reads the piece and decides to send it to a magazine for publication. After a lot of hesitation, Charu yields but soon tables the proposal of a hand-written magazine where only she and Amal would write. Her condition is that Amal cannot write in any other magazine. Charu proposes to come up with only two copies of every issue—one for each. This is yet another of Charu’s formulations of a closed and personal textual circuit where the two of text overlaps with the two of love. Amal does agree but deep within, he has lost his interest in secrecy a long time back. We encounter a dialectical tension here between a feminine desire for a private world of shared textual spaces and the masculine desire for a rhetorical accomplishment of writing in the public sphere where the wider field of the Other beyond the amorous couple is addressed and activated.
When Amal secretly sends Charu’s pieces, preserved for their secret hand-written magazine, to ‘Shororuho’ and they get published there, she gets upset with Amal. It is like the freedom of one’s beloved pet birds. It brings both liberty and pain with it. Not only does Charu’s writing come out in ‘Shororuho,’ in another magazine, ‘Bishwobandhu,’ a critical review of contemporary Bengali writing genuinely appreciates Charulata’s style of writing. The critic slams Manmatha Dutta and Amal’s artificial and ideational style and praises Charu for the unabashed simplicity, pastoral melody and imagistic qualities of her writing. This review once again draws our attention to the contrast between discursive male writing and the non-discursive and affective essence of the feminine inscription. But this appreciation accompanying flack for Amal does not please him and to make Charu jealous, he starts reading his pieces to Manda once again.
In the meantime it is Bhupati who wants to give attention to his neglected wife by listening to her writing. The entry into the circuit of desire once again necessitates an entry into the textual circuit. However, Charu does not yield on the first occasion. On the other hand, Charu returns to Amal’s style of writing to impress him afresh—‘Charu etuku bujhiyachhe je, tahar shadhin dhancher lekha Amal pachhanda kare na’ [‘Charu has understood this much that Amal does not like her own independent way of writing,’ in my translation] (Ibid.; p.368). When Bhupati is hurt by the betrayal of his dear Umapada and wants Charu to nurse his wounds, she is busy writing her piece to reconcile with Amal. She hides her writing once again from Bhupati. He is left alone, because he is outside the circuit of textuality. Amal however realizes Bhupati’s loneliness and feels guilty of attracting all of Charu’s attention. At this point in the story, Tagore uses the image of a deep dark hole, into which a traveller is just about to fall. But he is saved as the fog lifts at the very last moment and he encounters the chasm. This chasm is read on the surface of Bhupati’s face or if I may say, it is misread on Bhupati’s face. Throughout the story, Tagore uses the face as a textual metaphor where lines are read, left unread or misread. Amal reads the lines right but gets the source wrong. He withdraws himself from Charu.
Shortly thereafter Bhupati finds a bride for Amal with the prospects of a foreign settlement if the marriage happens. Amal readily accepts the proposal because it gives him the opportunity for a much-needed distance from Charu. Amal keeps ignoring her before departing and tells her to take care of Bhupati in tough times. As Amal goes abroad, Bhupati’s life also changes after doing away with his newspaper due to finance problems. He regrets having not taken enough care of his wife; as a result of which now it seems so difficult for him to resume a dialogue with her. After quite a few futile attempts, he chooses an entry point through the textual circuit. Bhupati starts reading Tennyson, Byron and Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay’s works and tries to impress his wife by reading from Tennyson, but it falls woefully wide of the mark. Charulata seeks refuge in the deepest and darkest chasm of her mind with an acute pain of separation from Amal, at the same time, wondering at the intensity of the pain.
As Charu slowly gets over the crisis of Amal’s lack and starts to take care of her husband, Bhupati wants Charu to start writing again. He himself starts to write in order to inspire his wife. He writes something in imitation of Charu and says it is the writing of a friend. Charu understands the lie but does not express herself. That her husband has to resort to the textual to get her attention makes her feel uncomfortable. She still praises the piece and the inspiration from his wife soon translates into pages of writing in Bhupati’s exercise book. It is another textual circuit, this time an epistolary one, that disturbs the stabilizing domestic space of Bhupati and Charu. Amal writes his first letter from overseas but hardly mentions Charu in it. Charu gets tremendously upset over this neglectful omission. Time passes and Amal tells them that his exam is on the cards and he would not able to write for a while. Charu becomes anxious as Amal’s last letter slowly becomes an event of remote past. She secretly sends Amal an expensive telegram abroad by mortgaging her jewellery. Amal’s reply reaches Bhupati’s hands and a deep doubt sets in. Bhupati burns his writings in rage and disgust at the betrayal of both public and private worlds. This may be seen to mark the failure of male writing when it tries to operate inside the private sphere. Not only does Bhupati throw his own writings into the kitchen fire, but he also throws Charu’s writings into it.
From this point onwards, Bhupati becomes extremely anxious about the crevices of Charu’s desire. There is an opening into a different order of desire but Bhupati cannot find the key to that order. The anxiety passes on to an interpretive desire and he considers Charu’s maneuvers false and deceptive. This ascription of falsehood and deception on that which is beyond understanding is Bhupati’s sad case of patriarchal forcing. He feels sorry for Charu’s laboured deception and her suffering in trying to put on the mask. The patriarchal assignation of feminine masquerade is turned on its head and now it is the mask which gives pain to Bhupati. But what he considers Charu’s mask is a different order of authenticity, the Real of her ‘face’ which remains inaccessible to him. There is genuine appreciation of Charu’s stolidity in Bhupati but if not consciously, in the unconscious at least, it all goes back to the ascription of a victim-like status of the woman.
Bhupati gets the job as an editor of a new newspaper in Moishur and decides to leave without Charulata. As Bhupati is on the verge of leaving, Charu asks him to take her along—‘Amake shange niye jao. Amake ekhane phele jeo na’ [‘Take me along with you. Do not leave me here,’ in my translation] (Ibid; p.383). The parting hands and the distancing posture say it all. He misreads Charu’s desire to be a desire to leave a mansion that reminds her too much of Amal. Bhupati replies that he cannot take Charu with him. It is the clarion call of an other textual circuit (this time, a public one fortunately) at Moishur that awaits him. But this time it is a return to the loveless textuality of Bhupati’s earlier newspaper. Tagore’s narrator uses the last crucial textual metaphor here while commenting on Charu’s facial expression in reaction to Bhupati’s ‘no’ or his denial to take her with him. The narrator compares her face with a dry and blank page—‘Muhurter modhye shomosto rakta namiya giya Charur mukh kagajer moto shushko shada hoiya gelo,…’ [‘In a moment all the blood trickled down and Charu’s face became like a dry and pale paper,’ in my translation] (Ibid.). The metaphor rounds off the textual motif of ‘Nashtanirh’ as it returns to Amal’s initial image of the white virgin page, depicted in his first piece. Bhupati is stricken by the opaque quality of Charu’s face, which makes him apprehensive about his reading. He reverses his decision and says he would take Charu to Moishur. But this time, it is Charu who says ‘no’ and the story comes to an end.
Charu’s ‘no’ of resistance is the culmination of her discourse in ‘Nashtanirh.’ Her face is a surface where little ciphers of desire appear, disappear and reappear against which the patriarchal game of misreading continues. The final similitude between her face and the blank page establishes a post-textual void. This is not a virgin page. It is a page on which letters have been erased. After the erasure, there remains a spectral trace of ciphers on this page and it is this enigmatic trace of feminine desire that remains a closed self-sufficient circuit, unreadable to patriarchal hermeneutics. Bhupati can never understand the real significance of this final ‘no.’ Tagore’s decision to end the story at this point, thereby excluding Bhupati’s reaction (much like the exclusion of Pyarimohon’s reaction at the end of ‘Khata), reinforces the point.
In Seminar XX Lacan defines the supplementary nature of feminine jouissance thus:
There is a jouissance that is hers (à elle), that belongs to the ‘she’ (elle) that does not exist and doesn’t signify anything. There is a jouissance that is hers about which she herself perhaps knows nothing if not that she experiences it – that much she knows. She knows it, of course, when it comes (arrive).
The fact that this jouissance can be experienced and can not be explained recalls Charulata’s opaque face, Uma’s senseless etchings and even the appropriated male discourse of Mrinal which is hauntingly punctuated by the Real of death. As we have seen above in these three short stories, Tagore mobilizes the writing of women to interrogate the private-public binary, prevalent in the male-dominated practices of writing. I have argued that his female figures, motivated by a transgressive jouissance of supplementation, subvert man’s phallic jouissance. The order of the indecipherable is crucial in this context and Tagore’s women remain faithful to the Lacanian Real of the Other jouissance by re-marking their unreadability vis-à-vis the patriarchal drive for phallic interpretation.
Santosh Chakrabarti, Studies in Tagore: Critical Essays (New Delhi: Atlantic, 2004)
Ranjana Ash, ‘Introducing Tagore in Multicultural Education in Britain’ in Rabindranath Tagore: Perspectives in Time (London: The Macmillan Press, 1989)
Supriya Chaudhuri, ‘A Sentimental Education: Love and Marriage in The Home and The World’ in Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘The Home and The World’: A Critical Companion (New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2003)
Rabindranath Tagore, Galpoguchho: Akhanda (Kolkata: Shatyanarayan Prakashani, 2002)
Jacques Lacan, Book XX: Encore 1972-73; On Feminine Sexuality: The Limits of Love and Knowledge (London: Norton, 1998)
Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay in Abjection (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982)
Adrienne Rich, ‘Compulsive Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence’
http://www.terry.uga.edu/~dawndba/4500compulsoryhet.htm (accessed July 25, 2010)
Lacan, Book XX, 74.
NOTE – this is a re-print:
Shifting Identities: Constructions and Re-constructions of the Feminine in Indian Literatures, ed. Prof. Sutapa Chaudhuri, Books Way: Kolkata, 2011.