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75 pages

English

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Was the first man you fell for a brooding desert prince? Or better still, a cruelly handsome feudal lord? Are you a spirited beauty, your fire contained-but only just-by the clinging brocade of your lehenga's choli? A delicious Kama Kahani is sure to strike your fancy. Madhubati, the beautiful, fiesty daughter of a Bengali teacher who tutors sons of rich zamindars, is pledged to Bidyut, the son of a family friend. But when fate brings her father's dashing student Som into her life just as it did six years ago, the voluptuous village belle is forced to choose between fighting against their families-or against her fast-beating heart. Will love prevail over reason and class?

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Love

Love (disambiguation)

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Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	02 décembre 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184002584
Langue	English

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T HE Z AMINDAR S F ORBIDDEN L OVE
T HE Z AMINDAR S F ORBIDDEN L OVE
Jasmine Saigal
Published by Random House India in 2011
Copyright Jasmine Saigal 2009
Random House Publishers India Private Limited
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A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, U.P.
Random House Group Limited
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London SW1V 2SA
United Kingdom
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author s and publisher s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 9788184002584
For Toto and Felix
PROLOGUE
A S THE CARRIAGE ROLLED over the red dirt of Radhanagar, past the banana trees that loomed over the village, the Amarbati lake that rippled along the northern edge of the village, the Devi temple, the fields of mustard that dusted a yellow hue on to the horizon, Madhu looked out to a view she d known all her childhood but a world she had never seen quite this way before. She had been born and raised here, in Radhanagar, in the Bardhaman district of Bengal, where she lived with her father, Chandan Lal, an esteemed scholar. Her mother had passed away when she was just a little girl and she was raised with the help of her grandmother. But last year, she too had succumbed to old age and now Madhu and her father lived alone. During the day, Chandan Lal would travel to nearby zamindars houses to tutor their sons. Madhu would remain at home, tending to the domestic duties.
She would start her mornings early, when the sun was not quite yet ready to make its appearance, when the hens were still waiting to sound their morning call and the birds, anticipating daylight, shifted impatiently on the banyan trees. She would make tea and bring it to her father, who would be returning from his bath in the lake. He would hold the metal glass with both hands, soaking in the warmth of the freshly brewed tea that his daughter had lovingly made for him, relishing it sip by sip, knowing no tea could taste as sweet. Then, he d be off for his various lessons. Some days it was to Krishnaganj, some days further away to Jaldha.
Madhu would first sweep the house and then go to the lake to wash their clothes. In the afternoon, just before her father returned, she would start boiling the lentils and the rice. Chandan would bring home a selection of greens, sometimes with fish if there had been a good catch made by the local fishermen, or sometimes with eggplants or other vegetables, whatever was freshly available that day. Madhu would wash them clean, cutting them carefully into small pieces. She would fry the fish in ginger paste and make a stew out of it, just as her grandmother had taught her. She would then bring some fresh tea for her father, who would let out a sigh of contentment at being back. Aah, it s been a rough day, he would say, leaning back and letting go of all the burdens of the day, as his daughter dutifully sat at his feet, gently swaying the fan.
Why is that? she would ask, looking up at him, anxious to hear all his stories.
How can I teach two idiots who can t even memorize the names of the five Pandavas? I don t know what Raja-babu thinks his two sons will achieve from all this tuition. You can t teach a goat to become a scientist.
I can tell them! I know the names of the Pandavas! Madhu would cry, excitedly.
I know you can, precious. Your intelligence surpasses half the Bardhaman district s.
Perhaps, Father, one day I can be the first woman from this village to go to Calcutta to join university.
Chandan Lal laughed. That was his dream too. But it was just that-a dream. He would never have the finances to cover such an expense. And besides, Madhu was a simple village girl. Her future was tied to Radhanagar and to Bidyut-the son of his close friend from Neelgar, a neighbouring village, whom Madhu had been betrothed to since her birth. The understanding was that they would wait till she turned eighteen. Madhu too knew that she was already bequeathed to someone, although they had never met. She felt secure in knowing that her future had already been planned and that her father felt comfort in knowing that he had completed all the necessary arrangements for his daughter, in case something should happen to him. But Chandan was a scholar-he read all day and often lived through his books. Like him, his daughter too, lived vicariously through her imagination. And although both of them knew, deep inside, that her path was already determined, father and child saw no harm in innocent dreaming, in concocting an alternate life.
But today was no ordinary day. Today, there was no childish role-playing either. Today, she was actually travelling with her father to Panchkula, a town slightly north of where they lived. There, her father tutored the son of Gopaldas Mallick, an illustrious brahmin zamindar. Her father did not often take her with him when he visited his students. It was not a girl s place to be loitering around with her father on errands. But ever since his wife had died, Chandan Lal couldn t resist indulging his daughter. That day, Madhu had looked at him with her large, pleading, twelve-year-old eyes and he had not been able to refuse.
Chandan Lal was not inherently a part of the wealthy milieu of Bengal, but he was an established scholar, having spent a considerable part of his youth in Calcutta, editing a literary monthly, spending countless hours with fellow intellectuals and thinkers of the late nineteenth century, later engaging in a brief teaching stint at a university, before marriage and domesticity called him back to his hometown of Radhanagar. His experience, education, and knowledge earned him a certain social status and respect amongst the upper class and not only did he tutor their sons, but was often invited to an evening discussion which sometimes included Haridas Mukherjee, the district magistrate, perhaps a bottle of English liquor, and a hookah being passed around. Often, the zamindars wives would gift him an old sari for Madhu or a pair of bangles that they had no longer any use for. He would return home with these tucked carefully amongst his books and papers. He wore simple garments himself-a pure white dhoti and a cotton kurta; in the winter, he brought out his burgundy shawl that had been a wedding gift from his wife s parents. But for Madhu, he would get the best things possible-an English doll through a colleague in Calcutta who knew some sahebs; a new puff-sleeved blouse in the latest British fashion; the sweetest mangoes of that season. She was not just his daughter but also the son he d always wanted, and his faithful companion. He taught her everything he would teach his paying pupils-no text was beyond her reach. She could recite the Bhagavad Gita by heart and she could challenge any man in her mathematical skills. Ever since his wife had died when Madhu was just a young child, she had become his entire world and he brought the universe to her-what he knew, he would teach her and what he didn t, he would buy.
My, this road is so long, it has no end! Madhu marvelled as she stuck her neck out to look beyond the horizon.
It goes all the way to Calcutta, said her father.
All the way to Calcutta? Really? She was awed.
Yes, the Muslims built it. Remember I taught you? he quizzed.
Oh yes, Sher Shah. Right, Father? she asked. He smiled.
When will we reach the zamindar s house?
House? It s no ordinary house, my precious. It s called Mani House. Just wait till you see it.
Madhu had never seen a mansion or a palace before. She had only heard of it from the stories her father would tell her and she imagined magnificent kings and queens living in them. She dreamt of saris dripping with embroidery and necks and wrists embellished with gold. In their laughter she heard the kind of bliss that only money could buy. Her large eyes widened at the thought of being acquainted, of coming face to face, with such glamour and nobility. She was half afraid the blinding magnificence of the mansion would just pull her into it forever; that it would be so large, she would lose her way and perhaps not find her father again. But she looked forward to exploring the inner chambers, the outer yards, and she couldn t wait to meet the zamindar himself. Just imagine, meeting a real zamindar! What would she even say to him? They were just simple villagers, even if her father was the most educated man in Bardhaman. Their home, although one of the larger structures in Radhanagar, was plain grey-there were no mouldings; their window grilles-just simple, straight lines.
Madhu wore her best sari-red cotton with small embroidery work all over the body, a hand-me-down from one of the zamindar wives. It may have been the previous owner s daily wear, but it held a special place in her wardrobe. Her hair which had not been combed properly was hastily gathered into a long braid that hung almost to her waist.
Couldn t you have worn some jewellery? her father asked, looking a bit worried now that they were approaching their destination. That entire day he couldn t wait to show off his Madhu, his pride and joy, to Gopaldas Mallick but the closer they got, the shabbier she seemed to look.
As the carriage finally came to a halt, Madhu leaped out of it, almost tumbling to the ground, in her haste.
Careful, her father cautioned. Collect yourself and try to behave properly for a change. This isn t home where you can chase the birds, you know.
Yes Father! she said, obligingly, not wishing to let her father down in front of their wealthy hosts.
As she smoothed her sari down and looked