First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘I do. It was a good offer but I didn’t accept it because he was an Englishman. I don’t want sahebs in my country.’

  ‘We can’t stop them Maharaj. If they wish to come they will. Let us be thankful that the man is not a government official. He’s a prospector mining the hills for metal. Our hills are lying idle. We lack the means of mining them ourselves. Besides, the sum he is prepared to pay is generous.’

  Birchandra sat in silence pondering the question. The proposal was not bad. But the man had been turned away. Who knew if he was still interested. Even if he was, it was going to be a difficult task to execute—calling for the utmost secrecy. ‘Ghosh Moshai,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘There was one who could have given me a lakh of rupees for the asking. She has left me forever. And it is for her that I beg from door to door. Is it not ironic?’ Then, a practical note creeping into his voice, he continued ‘Anyhow, you had better leave for Calcutta at once and track down the Englishman. Take the agreement with my signature on it. And send the money here as soon as you can. Remember that this affair has to be handled with the greatest discretion. My subjects must be convinced that I bring sahebs into the country for their own good. Prepare the proclamations accordingly.’

  ‘That would be no lie Maharaj. When the sahebs start their mining they’ll need a work force. Your subjects will find employment and a means of living.’

  The Maharaja stood up and went to the door. Then, stopping suddenly, he turned back. ‘I have another duty to perform,’ he said twirling his moustache in embarrassment. ‘After returning from Brindavan I wish to fulfil the queen’s dearest wish. It was her last request to me and I cannot ignore it.’ Ghosh Moshai trembled at these words but only in his heart. Outwardly he appeared calm and composed. But his mind was working fast. Radhakishor had been declared heir and had been accepted as such by the subjects. He was immensely popular. If the proclamation was withdrawn there was bound to be trouble. An uprising could not be ruled out. Birchandra read Radharaman’s thoughts at a glance. ‘Have no fears Ghosh Moshai,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t want any disturbance in the realm just now. We’ll discuss the matter after you return.’

  He left the room but came back once again. Placing a hand on Radharaman’s shoulder he said, ‘You have another duty to perform while in Calcutta. Dwarkanath Thakur’s grandson is a fine poet. His verses have given me much comfort. He deserves an award of distinction from the Lord of the Realm. But the English bastards will never acknowledge our great men. You must go to Jorasanko as my Viceroy and offer a purse of gold mohurs and a shawl to the young poet.’

  Chapter VI

  Bharat struggled out of deep sleep with a sense of impending doom. His chest felt tight and his lungs were fairly bursting for lack of air. As his eyes flew open he saw a man, large and dark as a demon, leaning over him and pressing a heavy hand over his nose and mouth. ‘Quiet!’ the man hissed in a grating whisper. ‘Utter a sound and you die.’

  Bharat’s body lay still but his mind was working furiously. ‘What’s happening to me?’ he thought. ‘Is this a messenger from Yama, the God of Death? Am I dying?’ The man tied Bharat’s mouth tightly with a towel, then yanked him out of bed by the hair. ‘Come on,’ he said dragging him to the veranda where another demon stood waiting with a spear in his hand. His huge body was naked except for a flimsy bit of cloth covering his genitals. A stench of stale toddy wafted out, in sickening gusts, from his mouth. The men pushed and pummelled Bharat out of the house and into the open where two horses stood waiting. Bharat looked wildly about him. The palace loomed in the distance like a dark, shadowy mass. Torches flared at the gate but their light was shrouded by a thin mist that had rolled up from the lake. It was a cold night and the sky was heavy with cloud.

  One of the men sprang on to a saddle pulling Bharat up after him. Then the two horses galloped rapidly out of the city into the woods. ‘They could have killed me as I slept,’ Bharat thought, ‘Why didn’t they? Where are they taking me? Could it be to the temple of Ma Kali? Are they going to hack me to pieces in her presence? Is this my punishment for doubting her?’ Thoughts crowded into Bharat’s head, like a host of moths chasing one another. ‘How can they see where they are going? It is so dark. I can see nothing. Will it hurt terribly? Only the first blow and then—oblivion. But the first? It should be swift and sharp. Malu Karati could cut off a buffalo’s head in one stroke. After every sacrifice he would hold the falchion high in triumph and look around with bloodshot eyes. ‘An elephant,’ he would cry hoarsely. ‘Why does no one sacrifice an elephant? I can cut off the head in one stroke.’ … ‘How long have we been riding? To which temple are they taking me?’

  Coming to a small clearing in the forest the men reined in their horses. Pushing Bharat off the horse his abductor sprang to the ground where Bharat lay and planted a large, ungainly foot on his chest. The other tied the horses to a tree and lit a bidi. ‘Why are they torturing me before the sacrifice?’ Bharat thought as he watched the two men smoking and chatting. ‘Even a goat is fed and fattened—’ The gamchha had come loose and he could have cried out. But he dared not. What if that great heavy foot on his chest was clamped on his mouth? He opened his eyes as wide as he could. The clouds had scattered and he could see the sky sprinkled over with stars. Those who led good and virtuous lives on earth were changed to stars after death. Was a star watching him? His mother? But his mother had been a kachhua. She had lived a life of sin. He was born in sin. But redemption was at hand. Soon he would be sacrificed to Ma Kali and his soul would be free.

  The man who had tied the horses now took up a shovel and started digging. The other urged him to make haste. ‘Hurry!’ he cried, ‘Do you want to stay here all night?’ Taking his foot off Bharat’s chest he went to inspect the depth of the pit. Quick as a flash, without a moment’s thought, Bharat sprang to his feet and ran with the swiftness of a wild boar. His chest swelled with triumph. No one could catch him now. But the demons were quicker. A spear came hurtling through the air and caught him, with unerring aim, in the back of his thigh. He fell forward, face to the ground. The man strode up to him and laughed. A searing Stab of pain tore through Bharat’s body as the man pulled out the spear and said, ‘You’re dead, boy. How far can you run?’ Bharat groaned, not so much with pain as at the thought that, scarred as he was now, he was unfit for sacrifice. His soul would not be released. He would be murdered by these men. The hole in the ground would be his grave. He knew that now. He would come back to earth in another body to be cursed and kicked in the next life as he had been in this. His beloved Master Moshai’s face swam before his tortured eyes. ‘Be a man Bharat,’ he had said again and again. ‘Don’t cower before your fate. Be brave and overcome it.’ He had been brave in trying to escape. He hadn’t surrendered without a struggle.

  The demon dragged Bharat by the hair to the spot where his companion was still digging. ‘That’s quite enough,’ he said roughly. ‘Let’s pack him in.’ Lifting him by the armpits the two men shoved Bharat, feet first, into the hole, then, grabbing his shoulders, pressed him deeper and deeper in the way a bolster is crammed into a tightly fitting cover. But, though Bharat’s knees were bent double under the weight of the pressing hands, the hole wasn’t deep enough to contain the whole of him. His head stuck out like a toadstool from the soft soil which the men packed about his body. Punishment of this type was not rare in Tripura and Bharat had heard of several cases like his own. When a man was banished from the realm the soldiers, whose duty it was to see that he never came back, took the precaution of burying him in this manner. They could then rest easy for he would either die of hunger or become food for wild animals. In either case, he wouldn’t come back. And this way the sin of murder would not weigh heavy on their conscience.

  As the men pressed the earth tightly around his neck with their feet Bharat’s thoughts raced ahead of one another. What had he done to deserve such a punishment? Who had given the order? One of the kumars of course. But why? He had never offended them by
word or deed. In fact, his servile humility before his brothers had angered Shashibhushan. ‘Why don’t you stand up to them?’ he had asked time and again. ‘Are you not the Maharaja’s son?’ A sob rose in his throat at the thought of Shashibhushan. ‘Ogo!’ he let out a wail that cut through the dark silence like a knife. ‘Why do you treat me so cruelly? What have I done? Don’t leave me here to die. Have pity!’ The men jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Ei!’ one of them shouted in a startled voice. ‘How did this spawn of a bitch loosen the gag? ‘ The other one dropped to the ground and delivered a series of stinging slaps on Bharat’s cheeks. ‘Open your mouth whoreson,’ he roared, ‘Or I’ll smash your head to pulp.’ Stuffing half the gamchha into Bharat’s open mouth he secured the rest firmly around it. After this the men brought out a razor and commenced shaving Bharat’s head. Bharat had a fine head of hair that rippled, dark and silky, to his shoulders. Their work completed, they rose to leave. ‘Son of a pig!’ one cursed as he moved towards his horse. ‘Making love to a Laichhabi!’ the other spat venomously on the ground, ‘Who can save you now?’ Then, mounting their horses, the two men rode away.

  How long did it take to die? Not very long, surely. There were wild animals in the forest. Prince Niladhwaj, the king’s brother, had shot a number of tigers and their skins now decorated the walls of the palace. The men had chosen a clearing in the forest to bury him so that his head would be easily visible to the prowling creatures that swarmed the jungle. Any moment now and one of them would find him. And even if they didn’t he would die anyway—like Jesus whose hands and feet had been nailed to a cross. Shashibhushan had told him about Jesus. Crucified at sunrise. Dead by sundown. Would Bharat take longer to die because he was buried in the ground?

  Though his body had disappeared Bharat could move his head. He turned it this way and that, his eyes straining to see something—anything. But the darkness surrounding him was impenetrable. Tilting his head upwards he saw the stars winking and glowing, pale gold against a purple sky. His body was inert but his brain ticked away:

  Twinkle twinkle little star

  How I wonder what you are

  Up above the world so high

  Like a diamond in the sky.

  Was it what you are or who you are? How did one spell diamond. Was it D-I-M-O-N-D or was it D-I-A-M-O-N-D? Why couldn’t he remember? ‘What does it matter anyway?’ he thought suddenly, ‘I’m dying. I shall be dead in a few hours. I’ll never take dictation again.’ Making love to a Laichhabi! What did that mean? Manipuri maidens were called Laichhabi. Like that Monomohini. ‘Don’t fool about with a Laichhabi,’ Ghosh Moshai’s servant Tarakda, had warned him, ‘They can be dangerous.’ But Bharat had never fooled around with Monomohini. In fact, he had gone out of his way to avoid her. It was she who couldn’t leave him alone. She followed him around, peeped in at his window, teased him and laughed at him. Oh, the things she said. They made him blush to the tips of his ears. He kept the door latched against her but the wood was old and rotting and there was a gap between the panels. Once she had slipped a twig through the gap and managed to drop the latch. Terrified at the thought that she might force her way in, he had stood with his back to the door while she hammered on it with all her might. Then, her strength failing, she had poked the twig viciously into his back, over and over again, till it was raw and bleeding. And all the while she had laughed—peal after peal of mocking laughter.

  Bharat knew that the game she was playing was dangerous for him. There were some in the palace who kept a close watch on them. And, when the time came, they would shower all the blame on him. She was a Manipuri royal and the queen’s niece and he was a bastard and lived on charity. Bharat had communicated his fears to Shashibhushan but the latter had laughed them away. ‘You’ve grown so handsome!’ he had exclaimed. ‘It’s but natural that women will fall in love with you. Why do you not go to the queen and ask for her niece’s hand in marriage?’

  Only last evening it had seemed to Bharat that his troubles were over. Monomohini, as was her custom, had been standing outside his window laughing and calling out to him. She had thrust her arms through the bars and, standing on tiptoe, was trying to grab him by the hair. ‘Tchu Tchu!’ she made teasing noises with her tongue. ‘Come out of the room, little suckling infant! Let me tweak your nose for you. Mother’s baby would like some milk, wouldn’t he? Come out and I’ll give you some.’ She had looked ravishingly beautiful in a pachhara, the colour of sunset, with kanchan and marigolds twined in her hair. Her breasts, tightly encased in a scarlet silk kanchuli, were pressed against the bars. At this moment the Maharaja had come striding in. He often came thus, unannounced, if he had something urgent to discuss with his secretary. He took in the scene at a glance and turned angry eyes on Monomohini. ‘What are you doing here you worthless wench? Disturbing the boy when he’s trying to study!’ Then, lifting an admonishing finger, he warned ‘Don’t ever come here again. If I catch you once more I’ll—’ Monomohini flashed her eyes vivaciously at the king, then ran like a doe in the direction of the palace. Turning to him, the Maharaja had said kindly, ‘Go back to your books, boy. Work hard and do well.’ Overcome with gratitude, Bharat had knocked his head on the royal feet.

  The Maharaja was not displeased with him. Bharat was sure of that. There had been kindness in his eyes. Who, then, had sent him to his death? And why? Why? Bharat’s knees were buckling under the weight of his body. The spear wound throbbed with a fiery intensity. But his physical pain was as nothing to his tortured mind that ran round and round like a rat caught in a trap. Who were these men and why did they shave his head? That question plagued him more than the thought of imminent death. How much would they get for the job? He had seven rupees and two annas tucked away under his pillow. Who would get the money? Could it be Monomohini who had sent those men? The Manipuris were very powerful. And cruel. The Maharani’s brother Birendra Singha could have a man tortured and killed upon a whim. Why was the forest so silent? Tigers prowled about at night, so he had heard, but not one had come near him. No, no—he didn’t want it to be a tiger. An elephant was better. Tripura was full of elephants. Now, if an elephant came strolling by and placed a gentle foot on his head it would be squashed flat in an instant. Would that be less painful then being mauled by a tiger? Suddenly Bharat fell asleep and when he awoke it was broad daylight. The forest had come alive and was teeming with noise and movement. Birds chirped gaily from the tops of trees and three gambolling fawns streaked away, in a flash, before his burning eyes.

  The morning passed and then the afternoon. Evening came and was followed by night and morning again. But nothing happened. Bharat felt no hunger; no pain. He slept and woke by turns. His thoughts, during his waking hours, were getting jumbled and disjointed. Faces came and went before his eyes. Monomohini’s face—vibrant and insolent. No! No! He didn’t want to think of her. He wouldn’t. He would recite poetry. But the verses were getting mixed up and the lines blurred over in his mind. Why couldn’t he remember anything?

  Bharat stayed like that for three days and four nights; On the afternoon of the fourth day he heard human voices for the first time. They sounded faint as though they came from another world. He wondered if they were real. It could be that, yearning so passionately for the sound of a human voice, he was hearing it in his imagination. Sometimes it seemed to him that he could hear a group of people singing; at others—a chorus of whispers. And then, an odour, delicious and familiar, came wafting in the air. Someone was cooking khichuri in the woods. This, too, he dismissed as imagined. People had such hallucinations when they were starving. He shut his eyes in weariness and utter defeat. But when he opened them again they beheld the most wonderful of sights. Two children stood close, very close to him. They were very young, may be five or six years old. They had healthy black bodies without a stitch of clothing on them. They were so beautiful they seemed to Bharat to be child gods just descended from heaven. He shook his head to dispel what he thought was a vision. But the children remai
ned where they were. They smiled at Bharat flashing white teeth in shining black faces. Bharat tried to smile back but his mouth was tied. He couldn’t smile; he couldn’t talk. The only thing he could do to prove that he was alive was to bat his eyelids rapidly. The children, thinking this to be a game, burst out laughing. Then one said something to the other after which they ran hither and thither collecting sticks and stones in a pile.

  These they proceeded to throw at Bharat laughing merrily all the while. Though Bharat tried to dodge the blows by turning his head his way and that, he got struck several times. The stones had sharp edges and they cut deep into his shaved head sending runnels of blood down his face and neck. The children played this game for a little while longer then, tiring of it, ran into the jungle. ‘Oré! Why do you go?’ Bharat’s mind shouted in desperation, ‘Hit me all you want but don’t go. Don’t go leaving me here alone.’

  But all the answer he got was the rustle of leaves and the scampering of rabbits.

  Bharat’s heart sank and a terrible depression overtook him. He had come close to being saved. The children were not alone in the jungle. He was sure of that. There were adults nearby; But he had lost his chance. No one would come near him now. Sinking his head on the earth he burst out weeping. His sobs were inaudible but the tears, gushing out of his eyes and soaking the gamchha around his mouth were visible enough.

  Chapter VII

  Journeying from Agartala to Calcutta was no easy task. Thanks to the arbiters of India’s destiny iron wagons with steam engines in them were carrying goods and passengers with amazing speed in many parts of the country. But Tripura lay outside British territory. The nearest rail station from Agartala was Kushthia on the border of Bengal. It took quite a few days to get there. Radharaman commenced his journey on an elephant with Shashibhushan as companion. Shashibhushan had welcomed the. chance of travelling at state expense to Calcutta where certain property disputes pertaining to his family awaited his attention.