First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Gyanadanandini’s behaviour with the other women of the family bordered on the offensive. She had travelled extensively both in Europe and India and had seen how advanced women were in other parts of the world. Compared to them her sisters-in-law seemed to her to be distressingly backward. Not only did they not emulate her as they should, they criticized her ways and called her brazen and arrogant. She had the drive and zeal of a true reformer and a proud, strong spirit besides. She ignored their barbs with a mixture of pity and scorn and lived on her own terms. She knew that women who were cooped up together like hens were bound to peck and scratch one another. Though, to tell the truth, the Thakur women were more civilized than those of the other great families of Calcutta. Quarrelling was never loud or open. Snide comments, subtle taunts and jeering and laughing behind one another’s back were more in their line.

  Gyanadanandini ignored everything that went on around her but felt trapped nevertheless. The environment, she felt, was not right for either herself or her children. She wrote to her husband, who was posted out of Calcutta, saying that she wished to leave Jorasanko and take up a house elsewhere. Satyendranath agreed. He was the only one of Debendranath’s children who raised his voice, from time to time, against his father’s tyrannical view of women. And he was ready to break with tradition. His wife would have a house of her own if she wanted it. He would support her in all her desires. Thus Gyanadanandini became not only the first woman of the Thakur clan to travel beyond India’s shores but also the first to leave the ancestral home breaking up the old joint family.

  The house she took up for her residence had originally belonged to the owner of the Bijni estates in Assam. It was a stately mansion facing the lake called Birji Talao and took its name from it. The house had a magnificient view of the towering domes and spires of St Paul’s Church. Here Gyanadanandini lived in great style and comfort. She was a generous hostess and welcomed visitors. But, of all her relations in Jorasanko, she liked Jyotirindra and Robi best. Being nearly the same age, she and Jyotirindra were great friends and he spent a good deal of time in her company. Robi was a favourite with the children. Bibi and Suren were the only two left now, their brother having died in England. They adored their Robi ka. He had stayed with them in their house in Brighton and they knew him better than their other relations. Gyanadanandini liked him too and made him welcome whenever he came to the house.

  Robi entered the vast marble hall to find his sister-in-law standing on the landing of the red carpeted staircase giving instructions to a servant. She looked very handsome and stately in her cream sari of heavy silk. It was pleated in front in the Pirali style and held at one shoulder with a brooch set with rubies and emeralds. Her figure was perfect, taut and supple, belying her thirty-three years and four childbirths. Her eyes had none of the doe-like softness of the average Bengali woman. They were large and dark and flashed with spirit and intelligence. ‘Robi!’ she exclaimed as she came down the steps, ‘Where have you been hiding? In Chandannagar?’

  ‘I’m famished Mejo Bouthan,’ Robi avoided a direct reply. ‘Give me something to eat first.’

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself? You look as though you’ve come through a storm. And what filthy shoes! Take them off! Take them off!’

  Suren was playing tennis in the back lawn and Bibi was practising on the pianoforte in a little anteroom adjoining the hall. She heard Robi’s voice and came prancing in. ‘Robi ka,’ she exclaimed, ‘you haven’t come to see us in such a long time!’ Robi smiled down into the happy face tilted up to his. Bibi was getting prettier and prettier every day. In a few years she would put all the beauties of Jorasanko to shame. Following Bibi another little girl came into the room. She was Sarala, Robi’s second sister Swarnakumari’s daughter. The two girls dragged Robi down on the sofa and, sitting on either side of him, bombarded him with questions. Meanwhile, a servant entered the room and placed a silver dish full of pastries on a small table.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come today Robi,’ Gyanadanandini said, seating herself. ‘It’s Suri’s birthday and I’ve invited some friends.’

  ‘You must spend the night with us Robi ka,’ Bibi cried, ‘There’ll be a wonderful party with a huge big cake.’

  ‘Natun has promised to come too,’ Gyanadanandini continued. ‘He’s to spend the night here. Why don’t you do the same? I’ve advised Natun to give up the house in Chandannagar and return to Calcutta. Garden houses are all very well for a few days. City people can’t live in the wilds for months on end. And Robi! What are you doing there? Why don’t you stay with us? This is such a big house. We can easily put you up.’

  Robi noticed that Gyanadanandini did not enquire after Kadambari even once. He knew she didn’t like her and had been opposed to the match from the start. Shyam Ganguli of Hadhkata Lane had neither wealth nor lineage. How could a daughter of his be deemed worthy of the most eligible young man of Calcutta? Mejda and Mejo Bouthan had tried to persuade Debendranath to reject the offer. But Debendranath had to be practical. Caste Brahmins of high families did not give their daughters to the Thakurs who were Brahmos on the one hand and stamped with the Pirali stigma on the other. Gyanadanandini had been outraged. Her favourite brother-in-law, so wonderfully handsome and brilliant, to be made to marry such an ordinary girl!

  But Kadambari hadn’t remained ordinary. She had developed and changed with the passing years and was, now, as beautiful and talented as her sister-in-law. The two women had little in common though. Gyanadanandini was shrewd, practical and worldly wise. She kept a vigilant eye on everything around her. The house ran as if on oiled wheels and she had complete control over her husband and children. She had a forceful, commanding personality and could make everyone obey her.

  Kadambari, on the other hand, was dreamy and romantic. There was something wraith-like about her. It seemed as though she found reality so overpowering that she preferred to withdraw from it. She created and lived in a world of her own wherever she was, whether in the sprawling rooms and gardens of Moran’s villa or in her solitary apartment on the top floor of the mansion in Jorasanko. Robi was assailed by a sense of mystery whenever he came into her presence.

  In the evening the house started filling up with guests. The cake, with its eleven candles, was set out in the hall. It would be cut the moment Jyotirindranath arrived. Robi felt restless and anxious. The last steamer to Chandannagar would leave at six o clock and it was nearly six now. He had promised Natun Bouthan he would return tonight. But the children clung to him and wouldn’t let him go. The way things were he might have to break his promise. To shake off the depression that overtook him at the thought of Natun Bouthan all alone in the dark, shadowy house by the river, Robi burst into song:

  ‘Won’t you tell me, Molly darling

  Darling you are growing old

  Goodbye sweet heart goodbye …’

  This was a song he had picked up in England and he sang it now substituting ‘Molly darling’ with ‘Bibi darling’. The children laughed gaily and clapped their hands to his song. Suddenly the clip clop of horses’ hooves and the rolling of wheels was heard on the drive and everyone ran out to the porch. Jyotirindranath had arrived.

  Stepping out of the carriage he asked anxiously, ‘Am I late? Is everyone here?’ He looked tired and dishevelled and the buttons of his kurta were open. Walking into the hall he went straight to his sister-in-law. ‘I’m sorry Mejo Bouthan,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t get away from the theatre. The players are so bad—they can’t even speak the language properly.’ Gyanadanandini smiled up at her brother-in-law. Putting out her hands she fastened the buttons of his kurta and asked roguishly, ‘Tell me the truth Natun. Which of the actresses kept you at the theatre all this while?’

  After the cake was cut and eaten Robi asked his brother if he was spending the night in Birji Talao. ‘Natun Bouthan will be all alone,’ he said, adding, ‘Have you told her what you mean to do?’

  ‘There are plenty of servants,’ Gyanadanandini spoke f
or her brother-in-law. ‘Besides, it is only for one night. Why all this fuss?’

  ‘Shall I return then Jyotidada?’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Jyotirindra sounded relieved. ‘Tell your Natun Bouthan I have some work here tomorrow morning. But how will you go?’

  The children clamoured around Robi begging him to stay the night. The last steamer had left, they pointed out. He would have to take a boat. And that would take hours and hours. What would be the use? But Robi dismissed their entreaties with a smile and a shake of his head. Natun Bouthan had asked him to return. She was very sensitive and was easily hurt. A train left for Howrah at eight thirty. If he made haste he would be able to catch it. Disengaging Bibi’s clinging hands gently, Robi walked out into the night.

  Chapter XII

  Bharat felt ravenously hungry these days. There was a fire raging in his vitals from morning till night leaving him faint and dizzy. He had been scorned and neglected in the royal palace of Tripura but not starved. Here, in this house, the cooks and their attendants delighted in keeping him waiting for hours on end before doling out a few scraps that were not enough to feed a cat to satiety.

  Three large clay ovens burned in the kitchen and a number of dishes were cooked every day. The head cook Nityananda took his orders, first thing in the morning, from the two mistresses of the house. Though living as a joint family the two brothers ate in their respective apartments with their wives and children. The main meals were served from the common kitchen and augmented, according to each one’s taste, with ghee, butter, pickles, preserves, sweets and relishes. The servants ate coarse rice, dal and a mess of vegetables which saw a sprinkling, sometimes, of shrimps or tiddlers. The fare, though poor, was plentiful. The mistresses did not grumble even if a servant ate a whole seer of rice at a meal. Sacks of cheap rice lined the walls of the store room adjoining the kitchen and the cooks were free to dip into them whenever the need arose. But Bharat was neither a servant nor a member of the family. He had been treated with deference when Shashibhushan first brought him to the house. But since the latter’s illness things had changed. Now he was seen every morning crouching outside the kitchen like a cat with its tail tucked in, waiting patiently for the two dry rutis and small dab of pumpkin stew that was his breakfast. As soon as the broken kanshi with these leftovers from the last night’s meal was handed to him he wolfed them down with the ferocity of a starving dog, then ran to the well and drank a pitcherful of water. That quenched the fire for a couple of hours after which his stomach started rumbling again.

  Bharat was almost back to normal these days. His memory had returned and the wound on his thigh had healed. But he still couldn’t recall how he had been saved and by whom. His last memory of that time was of two naked little boys throwing stones at his head, then running off into the forest. If only he weren’t so hungry all the time he might remember.

  Bharat roamed about in the garden all day looking for something to eat. There were bunches of green coconuts on the palms but they were beyond his reach and the trunks were too smooth for him to climb. The bel trees were loaded but the fruit was raw and bitter. Once he had eaten some and felt very sick afterwards. Bharat often saw a girl in the garden and it was invariably in the mornings. She was young and pretty and carried a basket of flowers on one arm. Bharat hid himself behind a tree whenever he saw her. His experience with Monomohini had been so devastating that he fell into a state of abject terror at the sight of a girl.

  One day, coming into the garden from the house, he saw a strange sight. A little knot of people, with Shashibhushan in the centre, were talking and gesticulating excitedly. Shashibhushan had a tripod in front of him with a camera and he was focussing it on someone posing by a flowering bush. As Bharat watched from a distance Shashibhushan covered the camera and his own head with a black cloth and started calling out in a commanding voice. ‘A little to the right. No, not that much. Look up. Lift your chin and look straight. Straight into the camera.’ Bharat wondered who the object was till, coming closer, he discovered that it was the girl who picked flowers. She wore a yellow sari that morning and stood like a statue—one arm outstretched. Suddenly a cloud came over the sun and Shashibhushan was forced to take his head out of the enveloping cloth. ‘We’ll have to wait till the sun comes out again,’ he said.

  ‘The girl was a devdasi,’ one of the men standing by Shashibhushan whispered, ‘I’m sure she can dance. Why don’t you take her picture in a dance pose?’

  ‘She was not a devdasi,’ Shashibhushan answered curtly. ‘She was being sold as one when Mejo Bouthan found her.’

  At this point the girl created a diversion. ‘I can dance,’ she called out in a high clear voice. ‘Shall I show you?’

  ‘No,’ Shashibhushan cried sharply. ‘Don’t move an inch.

  You’ll spoil the angle.’ As he spoke his eyes fell on Bharat. To his dismay he remembered that he had not spoken to him or enquired after him for months. He had seen his frightened face peering into his sick room once or twice but had been too exhausted to respond. ‘Arré Bharat!’ he called out now. ‘How are you? Come. Come closer.’ Bharat’s heart swelled with self pity and his eyes burned with angry tears. Master Moshai did not love him. He had brought him to Calcutta, then forgotten all about him. Bharat was starved in his house but Master Moshai didn’t care in the least. Bharat rushed out of the garden dashing the tears from his eyes. Running as fast as his legs could carry him he came to the edge of the pond and flung himself in the long grass and reeds that surrounded it. Weeping bitterly he cried, ‘Ma! Ma go! Take me away from here. Take me away with you.’

  Then, a few days later, he came upon the girl again. He was even more hungry than usual that morning because his daily ration of rutis and pumpkin stew had not been doled out even though he had waited for it for over two hours. Seeing the tears trembling in the boy’s eyes as he rose to leave, one of the junior cooks took pity on him. ‘There are no leftover rutis today, boy,’ he said kindly. Then, throwing a handful of muri into an enamel bowl, he handed it to him with the words, ‘Make do with this till the rice is cooked.’

  But the few grains of muri only added fuel to the fire. He tried to drown it with quantities of water but it raged higher than ever. Every nerve in his body, every fibre and sinew cried out for sustenance. He was a prince. Though born out of wedlock, it was a king’s blood that ran in his veins. He could not beg or steal. Clutching his belly he ran out into the garden and stopped under a tamarind tree. He stared into its branches in the hope of spotting some fruit but all his eyes beheld were rich clusters of feathery fronds—green as emerald.

  He jumped up and twisted off a handful from the branch just above his head and crammed them into his mouth. They tasted fresh and juicy, though a little tart. If cows and goats could survive on grass and leaves, maybe he could too, he thought to himself. Just then he heard a piercing cry, ‘Ma! Ma go!’ It was a woman’s voice, loud and frightened. Bharat ran in the direction of the sound and found Bhumisuta cowering against the wall that marked the boundary of the Singha property. From some bushes close beside her came a rustling noise. ‘It’s a snake,’ he thought. But he didn’t care to come to her rescue. He was giddy and nauseous with hunger and in no mood to take on a snake for her benefit. He looked with loathing at the shrinking girl. ‘She lives like one of the family. She eats well,’ was all that he could think. Suddenly there was a violent swaying in the bushes and a sound of scratching and scraping was heard. It was not a snake. It was some larger animal. What if it was a tiger? He shuddered at the thought. He had seen tigers in Tripura. They came prowling out of the forest and lurked in the tall grasses that grew by the lake. He remembered how he had dreaded being mauled by a tiger when he was buried, feet foremost, in the jungle clearing. And, then, he didn’t know what came over him. Picking up a large stone he ran screaming to the spot from where the sounds were coming. There was a loud whelp as the stone hit the bush. He recognized the cry. It was a jackal’s. Coming closer he found that th
e animal was entangled in the bushes and was struggling to break free. Bharat laughed aloud. Parting the branches he eased it out. ‘Shoo! Scram!’ he cried, then turning on his heel, he Walked away not deigning to cast a glance on Bhumisuta.

  Chapter XIII

  Mahadevi Bhanumati’s shraddha ceremony was performed in Brindavan with great pomp and splendour. But as soon as the rites were concluded the king rushed back to Agartala abandoning his original plan of visiting a few more places of pilgrimage. Addressing his ministers in a secret conference he revealed the purpose behind his hasty return. He wished to marry Monomohini as soon as possible. This, as he took pains to point out, was not a personal indulgence. At his age he was not eager to don a topor and chain himself in wedlock to a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. His late queen, just before her death, had expressed a desire that he marry her niece. It was her last wish and he had to respect it.

  All this explanation was probably unnecessary because no one showed any sign of surprise. ‘Let the girl be sent to her father’s house then,’ Radharaman said ponderously. ‘We’ll find a suitable date in the coming year and make the arrangements.’

  ‘The coming year!’ Naradhwaj, the king’s brother-in-law, echoed sharply. ‘Why not this year? Or even this month? The sooner the better. Don’t you agree Maharaj?’