Nicola Barker - The Cauliflower

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.

Saltconnects 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.”