First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  It was a cool bright day of early November when the two set off, sitting side by side on the howdah. There was a nip in the air and the yellowing leaves shuddered in the trees. The elephant swayed ponderously over the uneven forest track stopping, from time to time, to nuzzle the orchids that clung to the trunks and branches of trees. Every time the elephant stopped the mahut rapped his head with a stick and cried Hee ré ré ré. Walking behind were six coolies and two guards with guns. Shashibhushan had a gun too. He was as skilled with a gun as he was with a camera. He wore Western clothes with a sola hat on his head and kept his gun in readiness for any game that might cross his line of vision. Ghosh Moshai, in a plain dhuti and shawl, puffed pensively at his hookah.

  All of a sudden Shashibhushan leaned forward and tapped the mahut’s back with the palm of his hand. ‘Stop! Stop!’ he whispered, then turning to Radharaman he pointed a finger to his right. There, partly concealed by some bushes, was a patch of bright red. Radharaman wondered what creature it could be. But before he could utter a word a volley of shots rang out and five woodhens rose like a scarlet cloud into the brilliant blue sky. There was a sharp squawking and flapping of wings as two large birds tumbled down hitting the branches as they came. The coolies rushed forward with cries of delight. The flesh of the woodhen was juicy and tender and had a wonderful flavour. The eating of fowl was taboo among caste Hindus, the bird being considered unclean since it was eaten by Muslims. But Shashibhushan and Radharaman were modern men, educated in Western thought and culture. Besides, they had spent several years in Tripura where chicken and duck were eaten freely. Both were pleased at their luck and looked forward to the delicious fowl curry that would be an added bonus to the evening meal.

  As the elephant lumbered along Radharaman said, ‘I’d like to ask you a personal question Shashi. I hope you won’t take offence.’ Shashibhushan lit an expensive English cigar. Blowing a cloud of scented smoke he asked curiously, ‘What is it?’

  ‘What are you doing here in Tripura?’

  ‘What am I doing?’ Shashibhushan laughed lightly, ‘I’m earning my living. I couldn’t get a job in Calcutta.’

  ‘That I can’t believe. You have enough merit to secure a suitable employment even in Calcutta. Besides, I’m convinced you don’t need to earn a living. You live far beyond the salary the Maharaja gives you. And your tastes are as expensive as his. Why do you not stay at home when you have the means to do so?’

  ‘It is true that I’ve inherited some ancestral property. But before I answer your question you tell me what you’re doing here. Your English is as good as the sahebs’ and your grasp of the convolutions of the law is outstanding. Had you stayed in Bengal you could have easily secured the post of a Deputy.’

  ‘But I didn’t want to spend my life as a Deputy or a school master—the only two options open to me. Of course, my coming out to Tripura as tutor to the princes was upon an impulse. I had thought of spending a year or two in this beautiful country then going back where I belonged. Gradually I realized that if I stayed on I could rise very high—to a position I couldn’t dream of in Calcutta. The Maharaja is whimsical and a poor administrator. If I made myself indispensable to him I could enjoy a great deal of power. And I have done so. The Maharaja depends on me for everything.’ He stopped for a moment and added, ‘I thought at first that you had the same idea Shashi. I have changed my mind because if it were so you would have hit out at me long ago. I’ve set spies on you and the reports are astonishing. It seems you are perfectly content to sit in your pathshala teaching one little boy. I find that very difficult to understand.’

  ‘Have you ever considered that I may be a British spy?’ ‘There is one such person in the Maharaja’s innermost circle. But it is not you. You see, I have gathered quite a bit of information about you. I know you lost your wife within a few months of marriage. And though that was many years ago you never remarried. You have two elder brothers who love you and are anxious for your return. Yet you stay on in Tripura. There must be a reason. A sentimental one, perhaps?’

  ‘Not sentimental in the way you think. But, yes, there is a reason behind my coming to Tripura and staying on here. It’s a long story and you’ll have to be patient if you wish to hear it.’ Taking another puff at his cigar Shashibhushan went on. ‘My father had some property in Kandi in the district of Murshidabad. A house stood on it, a beautiful house with the river running on three sides and a forest stocked with game behind it. I was fond of hunting and enjoyed roaming in it, all by myself, with my father’s gun. One day, as I was stalking a roe, I sensed the presence of others in the forest. They were trespassing but I didn’t mind. The forest was swarming with rabbits, wild cats, boars, deer, even leopards. How much could anyone take away? Anyhow, after struggling for hours, I managed to shoot the roe. But when I reached the spot where she lay I was weary and wet and scratched all over by thorns—’ Shashibhushan voice faltered and sank to a hoarse whisper. His face reddened and his limbs started trembling.

  ‘Why? What is the matter Shashi?’ Radharaman cried out in alarm. ‘Come, come. You don’t have to tell me any more.’

  Shashibhushan glared at Radharaman. ‘You must know,’ he continued in the same unnatural whisper, ‘That deer hunting is even more difficult than tiger hunting. At the very moment that I reached the roe two Englishmen came riding up with their orderlies. They took the roe away by force.’

  ‘They took away your kill! The British don’t usually stoop so low. They have a sense of fair play and—’

  ‘You have no idea how low the British can stoop.’ Shashibhushan’s voice, suddenly regaining it’s full strength, rang out like thunder.

  ‘Perhaps the saheb also fired at the same animal. He may have thought—’

  ‘No. I heard no other shot. They came up to me and asked roughly, “From where did you steal the gun? You must be a dacoit.” I was on my own land, Ghosh Moshai, in our own taluk. They were the trespassers. And they called me a dacoit!’

  ‘The taluk may have been yours but the country belongs to the British. It is possible that they did not recognize you in your, bedraggled state. Calm down Shashi. There’s no need to get excited.’

  ‘There’s more to come,’ Shashibhushan continued grimly. ‘I spoke to the men in English. “The gun is my father’s,” I said. “It was bought from Smith and Anderson in Rani Mudini Lane. And this forest has been part of my family property for generations.” The sahebs didn’t even glance in my direction. Ignoring my words completely, they commanded their orderlies to take away my gun and pick up the kill. Then, turning their horses, they rode away. As they passed me, one of them—I learned, later, that he was Mr Hamilton, the Police Commissioner of Berhampore—kicked me full on the mouth. I fell to the ground—’

  ‘The sins of our ancestors!’ Radharaman’s voice trembled with anger, ‘Our Mir Jafars and Jagat Seths. We are paying the penalty.’

  ‘No Ghosh Moshai. Let us not blame the past. I came back and reported the matter to my brothers and other important men of Calcutta. They clicked their tongues in sympathy and looked mournful but no one would help me avenge my humiliation. I lodged a case against Hamilton but the judge was British too and he dismissed the case. Hamilton simply said that he hadn’t kicked anybody and his statement was accepted. I took the matter to the press but the newspapers reported nothing. And do you know what my brothers did? They were so fearful of offending Hamilton that they sold that beautiful property for a song. Can such a race of cowards ever hope to rise?’

  ‘Is that why you came away to Tripura?’

  ‘Yes. I decided I could not live in British territory any longer. Tripura is the only independent state in—’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve realized by now just how independent Tripura is.’

  ‘At least it doesn’t pay tax to the British. Ghosh Moshai! I have a resolution burning within me and I’ll bring it to pass some day. I’ll kick an Englishman in the face the way Hamilton kicked me, I don’t care how long I have to wait.
I’ll do it before I die.’

  ‘What a terrible thought! Don’t attempt such a thing my friend. We’ll be the first to clamp you in jail.’

  Chatting thus on various subjects the two men passed the long days of the journey to Calcutta. Every evening, just before sundown, a clearing was selected, a tent hoisted and a fire lit to keep wild animals away. Ghosh Moshai fell asleep immediately after the evening meal but Shashibhushan stayed awake for hours smoking his cigar and listening to the sounds of the forest. A sudden flapping of wings as a snake made its way into a bird’s nest; the distant roar of a tiger or the shrieking laughter of a hyena—all these entered his ears but his eyes were elsewhere. Scenes from the past flashed before them flickering and disjointed.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day they reached a small ganja by the river. Here they were to start the second phase of their journey. Standing on the ferry ghat, his eyes on the row of boats tossing about like the loose husks of a banana flower on the current of Meghna, Shashibhushan thought of his first voyage out to Tripura. He had sailed down the Meghna on just such a boat. It had been a wild stormy afternoon with the river in spate. He had trembled with fear when the boatmen had called out to Allah to save their flimsy craft from being dashed to pieces in the sucking, seething waters.

  The boat that they were to sail in was ready with their luggage stowed away safely. It awaited Ghosh Moshai who was buying some provisions for the journey. The ganja was crammed with people—touts and pimps, beggars in rows on each side of the road; gamblers sitting on strips of matting with their cards and dice; travellers awaiting their turn on the huge jewel boats that ferried people across. There were three shops selling everything from pestles and mortars to safety pins and two hotels standing side by side—one Hindu, the other Muslim. Behind them was a brothel.

  Shashibhushan moved from shop to shop looking for a box of cigars but the shops of the ganja catered to the tastes of simple folk, not an aristocrat like him. It was a hot oppressive afternoon and, fatigued with the exertions of the day, Shashibhushan decided to sit in the coolness of the boat and wait for Ghosh Moshai. But as he stepped into the boat he was overwhelmed by a strange sensation. He felt he had left something behind him; something very valuable. An urgency rose within him. He had to go back and look for it. Turning on his heel he walked rapidly back to the ganja. Though he didn’t know what he was looking for, he did not waver or hesitate. He walked straight to the rows of beggars and looked around with keen eyes. A little distance away a youth sat under a jarul tree. His shaved head was smudged with clotted blood and he was stark naked except for the dirty rag that hung from his loins. He was so pitifully thin that Shashibhushan could count every bone in his frail rib cage. He was obviously demented for he kept nodding his head and singing to himself. ‘Bird! Bird! Bird!’ he sang in a shrieking falsetto. Shashibhushan examined his face closely and cried ‘Bharat!’ The boy stopped his song for a moment but not a flicker of recognition came into his eyes. He recommenced nodding and singing with the rhythmic regularity of a clockwork doll. Shashibhushan took the boy by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Bharat!’ he cried again. ‘What are you doing here?’ But still Bharat went on nodding and singing. Stooping, Shashibhushan picked him up in his arms and walked rapidly in the direction of the river.

  Reaching the boat, Shashibhushan washed the blood and grime from Bharat’s wounds and wrapped a clean dhuti around his emaciated frame. Then, mixing a bowl of chiré, curds and treacle, he fed him as tenderly as he would a child. Radharaman looked on in silence, then, when the boat was ready to sail, he said quietly, ‘Take Bharat back to the ghat Shashi. He cannot go with us.’ Shashibhushan stared at his impassive countenance for a while, then said in a wondering voice, ‘Take him back to the ghat! What are you saying, Ghosh Moshai?’

  ‘We have no choice Shashi. Don’t forget that I’m travelling on a secret mission. Kumar Upendra wanted to come along but the Maharaja wouldn’t let him. Tuck ten rupees into Bharat’s waistband and let him go.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Shashibhushan exclaimed.

  ‘Listen Shashi. Bharat’s links with Tripura are broken. When the news of his disappearance came the Maharaja was not agitated in the least. “Good riddance,” he said indifferently, “Feed a dog ghee and he’ll vomit all over your floor.” In that moment I knew that Bharat’s days in Tripura were over.’

  ‘But why?’ Shashibhushan asked in a bewildered voice. ‘What has the poor boy done? He is gentle and well mannered and has never involved himself in anything that was not his business.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But someone has involved herself with him. The Maharaja is about to marry again. Did you know that?’

  ‘The idea is preposterous. Rani Bhanumati has been dead only a fortnight.’

  ‘It may be preposterous for people like you and me but kings do not follow the rules of commoners. He wishes to marry Monomohini.’

  ‘Monomohini! But she’s only a little girl. And the Maharaja is not a day below fifty. Besides, she’s his neice. He should look upon her as a daughter.’

  ‘Our sense of the proprieties is different from theirs.’

  ‘Are you implying that the Maharaja engineered Bharat’s disappearance?’

  ‘I can’t say. It might be the work of the Manipuris, that is Monomohini’s brothers and uncles. But they couldn’t have done it without the Maharaja’s permission. It is, naturally, quite inconceivable that a future Mahadevi’s name is linked with that of another man. You don’t understand politics Shashi. Mahadevi Bhanumati is dead. Her son Samarendra was not declared heir. The Manipuris are like dry tinder ready to burst into flame. The only way the Maharaja can appease, them is by marrying Monomohini. It is a marriage of convenience.’

  ‘I’m glad I don’t understand such dirty politics.’

  ‘Even so, you must understand that the Maharaja has driven Bharat out like a dog though he is his own son. We are servants of the state. How can we give him our protection? Leave him to his fate. He will find a way to live if it is so ordained.’

  ‘I can’t abandon the boy Ghosh Moshai! Such an action will go contrary to all my principles. If there is no room for him in your boat I shall take another.’

  ‘So be it,’ Radharaman smiled blandly. ‘I respect your high ideals Shashi. But if you can’t part ways with the boy I’m constrained to part ways with you. Go then. Choose a good boat and instuct the majhis to row carefully. I can’t wait any longer.’

  At a signal from Radharaman the majhis lifted the sleeping Bharat and, carrying him out of the boat, laid him on the bank. Then the boat sailed away. Shashibhushan watched it till it faded from sight and became one with the great heaving body of water.

  Chapter VIII

  Shashibhushan and Bharat spent the night in a dirty little hotel of the ganja. Next morning they travelled by boat to Kushthia and from there by train to Calcutta. Alighting at Sealdah station, Shashibhushan hired a hackney coach to take him to his ancestral home in Bhabanipur.

  The mansion in Bhabanipur was a large one. Here his two brothers lived with their families in amity and concord. They had sold their estates some years ago and started a business in jute. Jute was in great demand owing to heavy export and the business had flourished beyond expectation. In addition, the second brother Manibhushan had opened a factory for the manufacture of gunny bags in partnership with the Armenians. With so much money and goodwill in the family it was inconceivable to many why Shashibhushan preferred to live in self-imposed exile in Tripura.

  Arriving at mid morning, travel stained and weary, Shashibhushan took a long, cool bath washing away the grime and fatigue of the journey. Then, after a lavish sixteen-course meal served lovingly to him by his sisters-in-law, he made preparations to go out. As he stood before the mirror combing his hair his eldest sister-in-law Krishnabhamini came into the room. She held a silver box in her hand with paan in it. Her mouth was full of paan too and its juices, trickling over her lips stained them a bright, fruity red. She had a plump comfortabl
e body and a homely face with big dabs of sindoor on the brow and in the parting of her thinning hair. ‘Thakurpo,’ she said without preamble, ‘Aren’t you ever going to marry again? I have to hide my face in shame before our relatives and friends.’

  ‘Arré!’ Shashibhushan exclaimed in surprise. ‘Why do you have to hide your face? I’m the one who isn’t marrying.’

  ‘O Ma! Just listen to the boy’s prattle! Am I not responsible for you? And isn’t it natural for people to wonder why a fine, rich, well educated young man like you doesn’t have a wife? Unless, of course, you’ve kept a mistress in Tripura.’

  ‘Boudimoni!’ Shashibhushan shook his head at her. ‘Do you really believe I would—’

  ‘No I don’t. I tell everybody that my Thakurpo is like a diamond without a flaw. But I’ve had enough of your nonsense. I’ve decided to marry you to my Pishi’s daughter. She’s a lovely girl as sweet and pretty as an image of Lakshmi. You only have to see her once and you’ll like her.’

  Shashibhushan smiled. Manibhushan’s wife Suhasini had made an identical suggestion just before the noon meal. She had arranged a marriage for him with her Mashi’s daughter—another girl as pretty as an image of Lakshmi. He wondered wryly how many Lakshmis there were in this country. But it also left him mildly worried. If his sisters-in-law continued to pester him so he would find it difficult to live under their roof. On the other hand, going back to Tripura was ruled out after to his quarrel with Radharaman. He might have to look for some other accommodation.

  Next morning, to his utter surprise, Radharaman came to see him. He looked elegant and foppish with his silver-headed cane in one hand and the frill of his exquisitely pleated dhuti in the other. His face was as calm and composed as if there had never been any friction between them. ‘Well, Shashi,’ he said in a perfectly natural voice, ‘When did you get here? How’s the boy? Has a doctor seen him yet? By the way, have you found out how he managed to reach the ganja?’