Mother's Chronicles (Book 2)

3

Master-Mashai

Sri Aurobindo wrote: "The whole power of the Bengal artists springs from their deliberate choice of the spirit and hidden meaning in things rather than their form and surface meaning as the object to be expressed. It is intuitive and its forms are the very rhythm of its intuition; it leans over the finite to discover its suggestions of the infinite and inexpressible ; it turns to outward life and nature to found upon it lines and colours and rhythms, and embodiments which will be significant of the other life and other nature than the physical which all that is merely outward conceals."

If there is one man who personified this 'power of the Bengal artists,' it is none other than Nandalal Bose.

Nandalal Bose (1882-1966) was Abanindranath's

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first student. It was in 1905, that crucial year for India, that he joined the Art School and became a direct student of its Vice-Principal, Abanindranath Tagore. His classmates were great artists like Asit Kumar Haldar, who later became the Principal of the Luck-now Art School, and K. Venkatappa whose Nilgiri series captured on the canvas the bygone beauty of these hills. But Nandalal was the greatest. He found himself in the thick of the national awakening and bathed in the light of a new consciousness. The artist in him blossomed in this radiant atmosphere.

Persuaded by Sister Nivedita and Aban Thakur, he joined in 1909, along with three of his classmates, the team of Lady Harringham to assist her in copying the frescoes in the rock-cut retreats of Ajanta. Here was his first major exposure to ancient mural painting. Before him was a work with a warmth and beauty and glory of colour exceeding all that he had previously seen. Fired as he was to unearth the clues to an indigenous art language this lavish delight of beauty loomed as a whole lexicon. Immense were its range and its scale; joyous were its beautiful shapes and the coloured radiances of existence; and a certain calm strength which is founded

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on the Spirit was a revelation of a subtle spiritual emotion in which the soul and the sense were at harmony. He was never to forget this experience.

In 1910-11, after completing his studies, he declined an offer to teach at the Government Art School, preferring to work with his guru at Jorasanko for a monthly stipend of sixty rupees. There he assisted Dr A. K. Coomaraswamy in cataloguing the collection of art and artefacts of the Tagores; also did some illustrations for a book jointly written by Coomaraswamy and Sister Nivedita; and in between he taught a few art classes in the Nivedita Girls' School. Later Nandalal was requested by his guru to take charge of the classes at the Indian Society of Oriental Art, founded in 1907. Finally, Rabindranath wrote to his nephew to spare Nandalal for Visva Bharati: "I had faith in Nandalal and we need him for the country. According to me, he alone can create the atmosphere for propagation of the new spirit of art that is so vital to the country as a whole. ... I have no claim on him. I know you are his guru and he will do whatever you wish." So in 1920 Aban Thakur relieved Nandalal, who moved to Santiniketan. Then in 1922 he became

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the Principal of Kala Bhavan.

Nandalal's decision to come to Santiniketan turned out to be a crucial event in his own life as well as for the institution he was to build up over the years. The peaceful landscape and rural setting of Santiniketan suited his temperament and his quiet and simple living habits. His being flowered in the

Sri Nandalal Bose

Santiniketan 29.9.34

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freedom and his creative personality was able to evolve a potential vocabulary for modern Indian art.

There was complete affinity between Nandalal's creative urge and the Poet's iconoclastic ideas about education. Since the days of Swadeshi, the constant refrain of Gurudev, as Rabindranath was generally known in India, had been on self-reliance. And in Santiniketan he set out to give a rounded education. Art, in all its facets, was of vital importance in his scheme of things. Nandalal felt that "Loss of the sense of beauty not only cuts off a large source of emotional uplift and enjoyment, but leads to an impairment of mental and even physical health." And the Poet felt that we had to consciously cultivate a sense of beauty, of art in our lives, and that good taste is not confined to painting alone. So, under the overall supervision of Gurudev, Nandalal, along with a group of promising young talents, experimented with various art forms which included graphic arts, sculpture and even architecture. Artists and traditional artisans were invited from various parts of the country and abroad. For instance, in 1923, the French artist, Madame Andrée Karpéles, demonstrated the art of wood-engraving in

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which she was an expert. In the same year came Mr Fryman, a Mexican connoisseur. Also in the twenties came the Austrian, Madame Liza Von Pott, who was the first instructor in sculpture. She was followed by Madame Millward, an English student of the great Bourdelle; let us recall that the Belgian was a student of Rodin's. In 1927 was invited Nara Singhlal Mistri, a Jaipuri mural technician. In the meantime, in the Poet's company, Nandalal had visited Burma, China, Japan, Java, Bali, etc. During his travels, he picked up, among other things, the art of batik. Not only did he indianize it but he greatly simplified the traditional onerous process.

During the tenure of Nandalal, which lasted for about thirty years, Kala Bhavan became the most dynamic art centre of the land.

Indeed, Rabindranath and Nandalal interacted and gave an image of Santiniketan to the world at large.

*

* *

When I arrived on the scene, Master-Mashai, as Nandalal was affectionately called by everyone, was

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in his forties. For some reason best known to my father, he enrolled me to Kala Bhavan, though all my five elder brothers were already school students of several years' standing. One day, towards the end of 1932, Father took me to the Registrar of Visva Bharati. There I heard for the first time that my name was Sujata! I was known to everyone by my pet name. "Her age?" asked the Registrar. "Seven," replied my father. The next day Father took me to the newly constructed Kala Bhavan building and handed me over to Master-Mashai. He in turn took me to his daughter, Jamuna, and his son's betrothed, Nivedita, who were senior art students. I became their pet, and the three of us shared the same room from then on. But mind you, I was never asked for any admission tests!

Master-Mashai, as I remember him, was a man of medium height. He was pleasantly dark-complexioned, with a cluster of black curly hair always cut short, a well-trimmed moustache and a pair of spectacles with thick lenses. He was always impeccably dressed in white khadi shirt and dhoti. His only concession to fancy was perhaps the gold buttons on his shirt.

During the next two years as his student, I saw

Nandalal Bose

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Master-Mashai apply himself with equal ease to various fields of creativity in art; he was endowed with that kind of sensibility and technical mastery that this needed. He would squat on the floor and draw alpanas, to show us how the village maidens draw designs on the floor with their fingers dipped in a bowl of rice paste. And he would repeat to us the observation of his guru: "The village maidens, when they draw the traditional alpana designs for the performance of Basundhara Brata [the Earth worship], depict the earth as a single bubble of water on a lotus leaf." He would take his students to paint frescoes on the walls of the hospital; my role consisted in stirring egg yolks in the paints held in coconut shells! We students were encouraged to feel that Santiniketan was our own nest, and we took part in building it ourselves. Teachers and students were travelling the same path.

Picnics formed an essential portion of the art curriculum, for there was a speaking relationship between art and the environment. A senior student would be put in charge, and Master-Mashai would smilingly carry out the job assigned to him. The most modest and unassuming of men, no job was beneath

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his dignity —he would even joyfully sweep the campsite after the picnic. Cleanliness was a part of the art of living.

The life we lived there was always fresh and wonderful, as though the Gandharva Loka itself, the very land of art and grace and beauty, had descended in Santiniketan. Poems were recited, the air was full of songs, and plays were staged. Celebrations of various festivals, like tree-planting or welcoming the rains, were done with simple movements and gentle steps. It was Master-Mashai who designed the costumes and stage decors for Gurudev's dance-dramas and, with the help of his students, made the costumes and decorated the stage. Let me add here that my two classmates were superb dancers and, along with Nandita (Gurudev's granddaughter), were given the leading roles. Master-Mashai's novel ways of decorating stages and platforms and other places for various functions in Santiniketan with the restricted use of seasonal flowers, fruits and leaves, with products of rural handicrafts and the few colours that could be found around in nature, taught his students to appreciate aesthetic values in the simplest things. He made no concession to public taste

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but tried to refine it: "Art should never degrade itself to the low level of the general public's use or understanding. It is they who ought to be raised to the level of necessary health and plenitude where art is meant for the wise and the strong." In his day, Master-Mashai had envisioned that "The future art of India will look at the world with the vision of Truth and create anew."

"For Nandalal," wrote Gurudev, "Art is a living entity which he apprehends by touch and sight and feeling. That is why to be in his company is an education. I consider them fortunate who have had the opportunity of coming close to him as his pupils; and there is not one among them who has not realised and admitted it." He was truly an unusual teacher. He gave his students absolute freedom and never insisted on academic rigidity. He was always true to himself and therefore to others. He had no pettiness in him and never deprived others of what they deserved. Even when he did not hold the same opinion he never withheld his help. Master-Mashai translated into reality Gurudev's dictum, "The building of man's true world —the living world of truth and beauty —is the function of art."

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We children were part and parcel of an environment that was continuously evolving. Life was simple. Many teachers, including Master-Mashai, lived in thatched, mud cottages. Truly, the simple life, the open air, the affection of one and all and the sense of belonging in Santiniketan are indescribable today. Master-Mashai's kind heart and affection, his softly spoken words and simplicity of bearing made all the children feel that he was one of them.

As my brother Noren one day narrated to us: "Nandalal Bose's simplicity was remarkable. I remember, one day as a student, suddenly I got an inspiration." Noren was then a shy boy of twelve or so, and very handsome with his clear-cut features and lips like Cupid's bow. "I had an autograph book. I took it to him and asked him, 'Please draw something.' He was doing some work at the time, but it never occurred to me that I was disturbing him. He smiled and took the book. He just kept quiet for a minute, looking at the horizon. There was a Santal village. So he just put a few strokes with his brush, and a picture emerged: a Santal girl with a dhama [a flat rattan tray used for winnowing rice]. The picture came out of his brush in

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hardly a minute! That's some mastery!"

Nandalal's brush. ... As Rabindranath put it, "His brush is a traveller on the road that leads away from its own past. All creation sets out on its tryst along that road at the call of the Infinite." He was a true creator, our Master-Mashai. Not only his brush but, as an art critic puts it, "There are countless pen and ink or drypoint drawings, executed with masterly economy, power, expressiveness, sympathy and the tautness of bow that one finds only in great masters like Rembrandt, Dürer or Rodin."

But affection was a general characteristic of all the teachers. I remember that Gurudev would send the theme for a new dance-drama from Calcutta or elsewhere, which would be evolved by Santideb Ghose and Pratima Debi, the Poet's daughter-in-law; they also gave preliminary training to the dancers. As a child I was greatly attracted to dance and would tag along with my friends who were all older by several years. Neither Santideb nor Pratima Debi ever forbade me to be present and dance with my friends. Then when the Poet himself came to Santiniketan, there would be rehearsals every evening in the great hall of Udayan.

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He would watch and correct or indicate the changes he saw were required. Well, I would simply walk in and sit in a corner of the big hall, and watch; or if the fancy took me I would join the singers' group. Santideb, who was the leader (how beautifully he played the esraj!) and teacher of this musical group, never forbade me to join them. God only knows what I sang or how!! Truly everyone belonged.

This sense of belonging stemmed from Gurudev himself. The children felt free to go to him. My brother Abhay —extremely lively and good-looking, then under ten —often went to Uttarayan, the Poet's residence, taking offerings of keora (Pandanus) flowers to Gurudev. Now, Gurudev's precept was: freedom. He believed that a child could grow into a FULL person only in an atmosphere of freedom. He therefore encouraged children in all sorts of outdoor activities, to getting drenched in the rain, to climbing difficult trees . . . and coming to grief in their fall. But when he saw all the scratches on that fair little body and the scraped knees of the little boy, Gurudev's gentle heart would melt and immediately he would write a whole poem in the autograph book held out to him by Abhay.

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We could say that Rabindranath Tagore epitomized the Indian mind as defined by Sri Aurobindo: "The Indian mind is not only spiritual and ethical, but intellectual and artistic ... it returns always towards some fusion of knowledge it has gained and to a resulting harmony and balance in action and institution." All around us was this rule of a harmonising intellect and a rhythm of beauty. And was I delighted when later I came to know that to Mother, "It is through Beauty that the Divine manifests in the physical."

To be candid, I was much too young to understand the implication of what I was living; I took everything as a matter of course. Then, years later, the inherent meaning of one incident or another would suddenly dawn on me, making it clear that the many snapshots taken by the child's eye had remained unfaded.

For example, Master-Mashai often dropped in to see how his students were getting on or if they needed any help. One day, when he came, my two roommates showed him their sketch books. They were engaged in making head studies. Master-Mashai talked

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to them on some points in his soft voice. Then he asked me to sit on the low window-sill. And in less time than it takes to tell all this, lo and behold, there was my face looking out from the pages of one of the sketch books.

I have no idea what Master-Mashai saw in my face, but right at the beginning of my studentship (1932-34), and for a number of days, he called me to his own studio. Bidding me sit on a mora (a low cane stool) some dozen or more steps away from his easel, he would go on painting for half an hour or more (may I be excused! I had no sense of time at all). One day, after the sitting was over, he called me to his side and asked me to look at the picture he was painting. It had never occurred to me that I could look. Then he asked . . . my opinion! Was he not modesty personified? Anyway, I don't know what opinion I pronounced from my wisdom of seven years.

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Probably none, for I was not a talkative child. He told me that the picture was of a goddess. Which goddess? To this day I don't know.

But that he was genuinely fond of the child I was leaves no room for doubt.

Santiniketan is in the district of Birbhum (literally, land of heroes), a land of laterite. There we lived in the big house at Nichu Bangla, in the property of Gurudev's eldest brother. Every morning and afternoon I walked to Kala Bhavan which was about one kilometre away. Having the choice of several routes, I would follow the promptings of my feet. In those days we used our god-given vehicles. As a matter of fact, cars were a rare sight, noisy motorcycles were nonexistent, only bicycles were seen now and then. Sometimes I would cut across fields, sometimes take the red gravel road which skirted the Nichu Bangla area and, naturally, always bare-footed; at other times I would go through the school area where, under a shade-giving tree, sat the students on the ground in a semicircle around their teacher, who was seated on a mora.

Now, one morning, as I reached Kala Bhavan, I found it all silent and empty, and not a soul to be seen

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anywhere. So I came back, but along another route. This time I passed in front of the old Library House. There I found groups of onlookers standing around, all facing the building. I stood behind them and looked. Master-Mashai was there with several others, including my two mates, all busy putting finishing touches to the decorations on the verandah. As I was looking interestedly at what was going on I was startled to hear Master-Mashai exclaiming, "Ah! There's Rani." That was my pet name. He called me, "Rani, Rani, come here." So I went up to him. He told me that Frontier Gandhi (Abdul Gaffar Khan) was coming. Gurudev had gone in his car to fetch him and they would be here in a few minutes. Then handing me a garland of flowers he said, "You see, Poupee there will garland Frontier Gandhi when he and Gurudev come and stand here. You put the garland round Gurudev's neck. Then you come back here among us." I nodded. Poupee (Nandini) was Pratima Debi's daughter and, like most of the Tagores, very fair.

Barely had Master-Mashai finished instructing me when a car brought the two leaders. They got down and walked up to the platform. The Poet was

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tall enough (six feet or so), but the Pathan leader topped him by almost a head. Badshah Khan was very, very tall and spare. But Rabindranath, although in his seventies and slightly stooping, was a beautiful person. What with his flowing, white beard, his white hair falling in a wave onto his shoulders, his extremely fair complexion set off by an orange alkhalla¹ with black piping that reached to his ankles, his noble bearing and calm expression, he looked like a Rishi, like a Seer from the Upanishad age. As they stood side by side, Gurudev's gracefulness was much in evidence in contrast to the Pathan politician's stiff bearing.

Poupee and I went to our respective persons. Poupee stood on a small stool, garlanded the tall Pathan and went to her side of the wing. While I . . . I stood before Gurudev with upraised arms and did not have enough reach to slip the garland over his head. There wasn't any stool for me to add to my small height. Poupee had been chosen earlier, so her role was foreseen and arrangements made accordingly. But as I was a last moment's recruit, nothing had been

1. A kimono-like long loose robe.

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foreseen for me. Also I was eight or nine and short, whereas Poupee was already much taller than I at twelve or thirteen. Anyway, there was the great Poet absorbed in the speech he was going to deliver impromptu, and there was that little girl holding a garland in her upraised arms, but stretch as she might, even on the tips of her toes, she could not reach high enough. But almost instantly he realized that something was amiss. He saw me thus, understood my predicament, smiled sweetly and . . . bowed his head.

Quickly then I garlanded him, and went to stand in the wing where the waiting group broke out into the song of 'Jana-Gana-Mana' (now our national anthem).

The picture remained deeply engraved in my heart.

Decades later, it suddenly dawned on me: Greatness.

Who else but a truly great person could bow like that to a child?

What else but Greatness has that simplity?

And Rabindranath was great enough to recognize greatness in others. That his admiration for Sri Aurobindo knew no bounds is universally known.

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About Master-Mashai Gurudev said glowingly: "I have seen Nandalal as man and artist at close quarters. Such a combination of intelligence, warm-heartedness, skill, experience and insight as one finds in him is rarely to be seen." So perfectly true. And added, "He does not care for praise such as this, but I have felt an inner prompting to write these words." Indeed, Master-Mashai's disdain to discuss himself, to talk about himself, left me puzzled. For I never understood why, if I could speak good of others, I should not speak good of myself! What's the difference between me and others!?

In his assessment of the Artist, the Poet was warm-hearted: "The artist's distinctive aristocracy is to be found in his character and his way of life. We have had continual proof of this in Nandalal's case.... His natural aristocracy has another trait: his unruffled composure. ..." So very true. Because even the unjust criticism of a friend did not disconcert him. But ... I saw his composure ruffled. Once. Thereby hangs a tale.

One day in 1934 an aeroplane landed in an open field a little outside Santiniketan. Now, in those days of the thirties, this was quite an event. All the young and not-so-young ran pell-mell to the landing ground.

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Our eyes were like saucers when we saw the huge flying machine with its outspread wings. We were so awe-struck that the great admiration for the man who had flown it took some time to break out of our throats. Then the collected crowd chorussed, "Sadhu, sadhu. ..." (We didn't clap but said sadhu, 'bravo,' in Santiniketan.) The pilot was escorted by the grown-ups to meet Gurudev. The children lingered on. They inspected the great flying machine, and I wondered if this bird from the skies was a kinsman of Garuda, Lord Vishnu's mount? Or of Jatayu, who fought in vain the demon-king of Lanka to save Rama's queen, Sita? I had no knowledge of history or geography, but Father had told us stories from the Ramayana and Mahabharata.

Near me stood a knot of boys and girls of mixed ages talking about the pilot.

"He is French, you know," said one of the big boys who seemed to know everything.

"French? What's that?" came from a very young fellow.

"He comes from France." "France? Where's that?"

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"France? Is it far away like Calcutta?" asked another young one.

"It's a country across the seas, in Europe."

There was a collective "Ah."

"His name?" many wanted to know.

"Mon-si-o. . . ." Then answering the others' mute question, he explained, "It means Mashai."

"Mon-si-o means Mashai," everyone repeated.

"His name is Mon-si-o Fouquet."

Then in twos and threes the students straggled back to their interrupted classes. I went to Kala Bhavan.

With most affectionate and

fraternal greetings from France!

Gaé'tan Fouquet Santiniketan 24.11.34

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After some time had elapsed, Master-Mashai came into our studio. All the three of us— Jamuna, Nivedita and I —were there. He said to me, "Rani, go to Uttarayan. Gurudev is calling you." I went out leaving the others behind me in that room, and set off at my leisurely pace.

I set off. Yes. But I had taken some two dozen steps or so when my eyes were drawn to a green shrub with glossy leaves, standing alone on the red ground. Its starry flowers were inviting. So I squatted by the bush and began studying the flowers. The petals were painted pink and sort of rounded, and all the five of them were spread round a narrow tube, looking like a dish on a stand. The buds looked funny,

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for the petals were all tightly wrapped round each other, as though a stick were standing on another stick!¹ And so absorbed did I become that I clean forgot everything else.

"What! You are still here?" the agitated voice of Master-Mashai brought me briskly down to earth.

"Go, go. Go quickly. Gurudev is waiting for you."

I ran.

My poor Master-Mashai had hurried from Uttar-ayan in a blazing midday sun to give me that message and there was I, even after twenty minutes or more, still not on my way! No wonder his usual calm was ruffled.

I ran and reached the big hall of Udayan from the garden side. As I entered the hall I saw Gurudev standing, .talking to our morning's pilot. Not another soul was to be seen. Evidently all the ceremonies were over and everybody had gone away.

As I walked in, Gurudev turned and looked at me. I stopped shyly at a little distance from them. He

1. Many years later I learned that this was known as 'Madagascar Periwinkle' (Vinca). Mother gave it the significance 'Progress,' by which she meant, "The reason why we are on earth."

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beckoned me to come nearer. I went and stood near him. He then said something to Monsieur Fouquet. I don't know whether he talked in English or in French, because I knew neither. Therefore, gentle Reader, I cannot tell you why Gurudev had called me!!

At any rate, 'Mon-si-o Fouquet' was my first acquaintance with the French. But not so for Gurudev. He had visited France several times. He had also translated Moliere and Victor Hugo into Bengali. He not only knew famous men like Romain Rolland and Silvain Levy, but his family was very intimate with the Karpelés family. Rathindranath Tagore, the Poet's son, wrote about their visit there in 1920: "Andree Karpeles took us to an art dealer's shop in Place de la Madeleine where, I believe, for the first time a considerable collection of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings was exhibited. The effect on us was overwhelming." And Suzanne Karpeles, an authority on Indo-Chinese culture, whom Mother called Bharatidi, remained a life-long friend of Pratima Debi Tagore.

AND....

And in 1916, Rabindranath Tagore had met Mirra.

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