First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  One morning, several days later, a pale enfeebled Gurmukh Rai tottered into his theatre with a proposal for Girish. He would gift half the ownership of Star to Binodini. The rest could either be sold in the open market or bought over by the rest of the troupe. But before anyone could say anything Girish rejected his proposal. Fixing his eyes on Binodini’s face he said solemnly, ‘The offer is generous Binod, but don’t give way to temptation. You’re an artist—a great artist. You must throw everything you have in your acting—your heart, soul, mind and senses. If you start counting rupees, annas and pies it will be the end of your acting career. I wouldn’t take on a business if someone gave it to me free. And running a theatre is no different from running any other business.’ Turning to Gurmukh he continued, ‘You must reconsider your proposal. If you give half the ownership to Binodini the theatre will be ruined. She’s a member of the troupe. The others will refuse to work under her.’

  Gurmukh had neither the strength nor the desire to fight Girish. He had to get rid of the theatre, at whatever cost. After a little haggling a deal was struck. It was decided that the troupe would buy it from Gurmukh at the cost of eleven thousand rupees—a mere fraction of what he had spent on it. The money was collected in a few days and the papers signed. Four men, nominated by Girish, were to have the ownership rights and represent the troupe in everything. Thus the STAR passed into the hands of Girish and his cronies and Binodini was reduced to working on a monthly wage. However, her unquestioned obedience to Girish did not go unrewarded. Those of her colleagues who had hated and envied her all these years felt a softening in their hearts. ‘Poor girl!’ they whispered to one another, ‘She has given up a king’s ranson. Would you or I have done it?’

  Binodini was now free of a protector and her house was her own. It was a good place to spend time after performances and Girish and his friends were there most evenings drinking and chatting about this and that. Binodini still held the opinion that her role in Kamalé Kamini was not worthy of her. She was also bitterly jealous of Bonobiharini who had left National Theatre for STAR and was playing Srimanta Saudagar. Binodini continued to complain but now Girish could shut her up with a sharp reprimand. One evening, while pouring out his brandy, she turned a pair of large pleading eyes on Girish and said ‘Everyone says that Bhuni will get more claps than me in Kamal é Kamini.’

  ‘They must be mad,’ Girish took the glass from her hand. ‘On your first entry as Chandi the walls of the theatre will burst with applause.’

  ‘Yes, because of the costume. But Bhuni’s role is much better. It has so many beautiful songs. Why didn’t you give it to me?’

  ‘But she’s acting a man —’

  ‘I can too. Don’t I have the ability?’

  ‘Of course you do. But who wants to see you as a man? Bhuni is much older than you and not half as beautiful. That’s why I’ve given her the part of Srimanta. But the spectators want to see Binodini all dressed up in silks and jewels—flashing her eyes, laughing, weeping, singing, dancing. They come in hundreds to see your beautiful face and voluptuous figure. Can we disappoint them? After all they provide us with our living.’

  ‘Let me play Srimanta for one night,’ Binodini begged. ‘I know all the songs and—’

  ‘Stop nagging, woman,’ Girish snapped at her. ‘How can I change parts at this eleventh hour? Besides Bhuni won’t agree.’ ‘Then leave me out of the play.’ Tears glittered in Binodini’s eyes and her voice trembled in disappointment. ‘I don’t want to act anymore.’

  Girish gazed on her face for a long moment. An idea started forming in his head. Suddenly, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm, he said, ‘I’ve just thought of a subject—a historical drama in which you will play the male lead. It will be a long part and a serious one. No coquetry and tricks. Can you do it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s settled then. I’ll start writing tonight. You’ll have to put all you have in it, Binod, because you’ll be solely responsible for its success or failure. Another thing. It’ll be the most difficult role you’ve played in your life—a role that will test your acting ability as no other role could ever do.’

  Chapter XXIII

  One morning Bhumisuta was on the roof putting out some clothes to dry when her eye was caught by a scene in the woods, opposite the house, that made her run to the edge for a better view. On a reed mat, spread out in a little clearing between the trees, Bharat and a young man, who from his goatee and fez appeared to be a Muslim, sat peeling potatoes. A little distance away two other boys were struggling to light a fire. They puffed and blew till they were red in the face but all that rewarded their efforts were clouds of thick smoke that sent tears pouring down their cheeks. Bhumisuta giggled. The wood had been packed two tightly between the stones and had no room to breathe! A few vessels and baskets lay scattered about. It was obvious that Bharat and his friends were picnicking in the woods and were planning to do the cooking themselves. But how would they manage without help? Who would grind their spices and fetch them water? Bhumisuta needn’t have worried. As a matter of fact, the boys had organized themselves quite well. Dwarika had done all the shopping and borrowed cooking vessels from his mess cook. He had even bribed the servants to grind several kinds of spices. He would do the cooking and Bharat, Irfan and Jadugopal would assist him.

  Dwarika came from an orthodox Brahmin family, Jadugopal was a member of the Sadharan Brahmo Samaj, Irfan was an Ali Sunni Muslim and Bharat didn’t know what he Was. Yet the four were knit together in a bond of friendship that was as tenacious as it was strong. Dwarika was so fond of Irfan that he often remarked regretfully, ‘If you weren’t born a Muslim, you ass, I would have married you to my sister.’

  Bharat was a king’s bastard; Irfan an orphan from a very poor family of Murshidabad. But they had a lot in common. Both were mild in speech and introverts by nature. And both lived on sufferance—Bharat in the house of the Singhas and Irfan under the roof of an employee of Janaab Abdul Latif. They shared a passion for learning and a burning ambition to make something worthwhile of their lives. However, there was one big difference between them. Bharat’s soul was corroded with bitterness—against his father, against the ways of the world and against women. Irfan, despite all the humiliations he suffered as a poor relative, had a nature as sweet and trusting as a child’s. Dwarika had taken off his shirt and tied a gamchha around his waist. His face was red and hot and his hair dishevelled as he lay flat on the ground blowing at the fuel that refused to catch fire. With the thick white poité resting on his bare chest he looked more like a Brahmin cook than a student of Presidency College.

  ‘Shall I hang up a sheet on this side?’ Bharat offered, ‘It might keep out the breeze and—’

  ‘Don’t keep out the breeze for God’s sake,’ Jadugopal quipped. ‘It might be all we’ll get this morning.’ Then, prodding Dwarika’s back with a bony finger, he continued, ‘Do you hold out any hope Dwarika? The rats are wrestling with each other in my stomach already.’

  ‘Tell them to call a truce,’ Dwarika replied. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  Suddenly, a rustling in the bushes a few yards away made all the boys spin around. ‘What was that?’ Jadugopal cried out in a startled voice. ‘I hope it’s not a jackal. All we need now is a pack of jackals springing on us.’ The rustling sound was now accompanied by a violent swaying of leaves and branches. Bharat ran towards the spot and, parting the bushes, saw a girl crouching on the ground. It was Bhumisuta. Bharat’s brows came together in distaste. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked sternly. Bhumisuta rose from the ground and, ignoring him completely, walked towards the others.

  ‘Who is the girl?’ Jadugopal asked curiously.

  ‘She’s … she’s someone who lives in the same house—’ Bharat couldn’t bring himself to say, ‘She’s a maid.’

  Bhumisuta walked straight to the fire, and, pulling out some of the sticks and rearranging the others, commenced fanning it with the end of her sari. Within seconds the w
ood burst into flame. ‘Wonderful!’ Dwarika exclaimed. Bhumisuta lifted the lid of a pot and tried to peer inside but Bharat stopped her with a gesture. ‘That’s enough Bhumi,’ he said with all the dignity he could muster. ‘Go home now.’

  ‘Why not let her stay?’ Jadugopal urged. ‘She can help Dwarika.’

  ‘Is this the girl you told us about?’ Dwarika asked curiously. ‘The one who can sing and dance.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bharat replied cautiously. ‘She’s from Orissa. I’ll tell you more about her later. She must go now. It’s not proper for her to be seen with us.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jadugopal persisted.

  ‘Because people in the road have already started staring at us,’ Dwarika replied.

  ‘Let them,’ Jadugopal said stubbornly. ‘There is nothing wrong in men and women mixing as friends. We of the Brahmo Samaj believe women to be equal to men in all respects. We are urged to work for their uplift and—’

  ‘Stop nattering about your Samaj,’ Dwarika snapped irritably. ‘How many Brahmos do we have in our country? This is a land of the Hindus. Our traditions decree that women be confined to their homes and look to the comfort of their husbands and sons.’

  ‘Out traditions!’ Jadugopal exclaimed angrily. ‘You’re talking rot Dwarika. What do you know about our traditions? Have you read ancient history?’

  Bhumisuta turned her head to have a good look at Jadugopal. Her father used to talk exactly as this young man was doing. She hadn’t heard anyone say that women were equal to men ever since she had left home. But, for all the strength of Jadugopal’s arguments, Dwarika was proved right. A little knot of people could be seen on the road whispering to one another and pointing out to the group in the woods. A couple of carriages had halted, too, and, curious faces peered from the windows. ‘Go home Bhumi!’ Bharat ordered in an ominous voice. Bhumisuta glanced briefly at his red, angry face and, putting down the ladle she held in her hand, walked meekly away. ‘What cowards you are!’ Jadugopal cried. ‘Are we doing anything wrong? Are we drinking or dallying with the girl? How long can people stare at us? After sometime they will understand that this is an innocent picnic and go away.’

  ‘The mutton is nearly done,’ Dwarika said by way of reply.

  ‘I’ll start boiling the rice. We can eat in a few minutes. I’m cooking this meal for my friends and I don’t need a woman to help me.’

  Bhumisuta was flogged the next day. Word had spread, through what source she did not know, that she had been seen laughing and flirting with Bharat and his friends. When the news reached Monibhushan’s ears his lust for the girl, suppressed with difficulty, was metamorphosed into a murderous rage. The thought of Bhumisuta smiling on another man set his blood on fire. ‘Haramzadi!’ he cried hoarsely between clenched teeth as he struck the delicate body, over and over again with a whip, ‘I’ll put an end to your harlot tricks … I’ll make the flesh fly off your bones before I’ve done with you ‘‘ Monibhushan’s eyes rolled and foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. His heart beat so heavily that he felt it would burst. But he went on striking the girl screaming ‘Bitch!’ and ‘Whore!’ between blows till Bhumisuta fell at his feet in a dead faint. The mistresses of the house stood at a distance watching the flogging but did not come forward to stop him or protect Bhumisuta.

  Bhumi lay like a bundle of bloodsoaked rags for hours in the sun. Then, after all the household tasks were done, two maids picked her up and carried her to her room. She lay there for four days. Not a soul came near her. Her back, thighs and breasts were covered with angry red welts. The skin on her long delicate fingers was cut to ribbons. But her face was untouched. The most vicious of Manibhushan’s blows had failed to leave their mark for she had covered it with her hands. ‘I should have died,’ she thought over and over again. ‘Why didn’t I? Why do I go on living? Shall I kill myself? I can set my clothes on fire and—’ Her lips, cracked and swollen with thirst, trembled in self pity and tears oozed painfully out of her eyes.

  No, Bhumisuta could not die. Strange though it was, it was hunger and thirst that drove her out of her isolation and brought her back to the scene of her humiliation. She was young and strong and her body craved food and drink.

  There were changes awaiting her. A middle-aged widow had been appointed to take over her duties in the puja room. Henceforth, she was not to go near the gods lest she pollute their air with her sinful breath. The most menial of tasks were allotted to her. She was set to scrubbing kitchen vessels, washing clothes and wiping down the floors of the rooms and verandas. Bhumisuta accepted her new role without a murmur. She didn’t want to get beaten again.

  In the evenings, after the beds were made and her work done for the day, she would go up to the roof to catch a breath of air. She dared not look in the direction of Bharat’s room though it drew her irresistibly. Bharat hadn’t been let off either. Monibhushan had threatened him with expulsion from the house if he was caught anywhere near Bhumisuta. Bharat had stood his ground. He had said that he was answerable to Shashibhushan and to no one else. He was here as Shashibhushan’s representative and would leave the house only on his command.

  The days passed. Bharat and Bhumisuta did not even exchange a glance. Then, one evening, as Bharat was walking up the stairs to his room, he chanced to look up at the roof. As soon as he did so someone glided away from his line of vision as swiftly and imperceptibly as a shadow. Bharat stood undecided for a moment, then made up his mind. Running up to the roof he came and stood by Bhumisuta. ‘I have something to say to you,’ he said. Bhumisuta stood silent, her eyes fixed at her feet. ‘I understand your predicament,’ Bharat went on. ‘But there is nothing I can do to help you. I’m a dependent myself. Mejo Karta has threatened to throw me out if he catches me anywhere near you. It won’t do you any good either. He’ll treat you even more cruelly. You must stop coming up to the roof and peering into my room. Do you understand me?’ Bhumisuta nodded. Bharat lit a cigarette and paced up and down for a while. Then, clearing his throat, he continued, ‘This country is governed by the British according to a rule of law. Mejo Karta may have paid your uncle a few rupees but you are not his slave. He can’t keep you here against your will. You can leave this house any time you wish. The police will help you. A friend of mine has told me that the Brahmos have opened an ashram in Kolutola where girls like you can find a home. Not only that, they are given an education and taught some skill enabling them to earn their own living. Would you like to go there? Do you have the courage?’ Bhumisuta lifted her eyes and, fixing them on Bharat’s face, said steadily, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you leave this house?’ ‘I can.’

  ‘You’ll have to go in secret. I’ll help you. But only to the extent of taking you there. After that you’re responsible for yourself. You’ll never see me again.’

  Two days later Bhumisuta left the house of the Singhas. Pushing her way out through a patch of broken wall she walked on silent feet to the corner of the road where Bharat stood waiting. It was late evening and the shadows were closing around them. Bharat tried to peer into Bhumisuta’s face but he couldn’t see it. The edge of a pink sari was drawn over her head so low that it fell to her breast. But he recognized her from the way she walked. And he also noted the small bundle she carried under her arm.

  The hackney cab that carried Bharat, Bhumisuta and two other passengers, went clattering along by the side of the Ganga. It was a risky venture, for at this hour of twilight, drunken goras often came out from the Maidan, waylaid innocent passengers and robbed and molested them. The nervous driver urged his rheumatic horse on with alternate shouts of encouragement and. cruel cuts with his whip till, reaching Janbazar, everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Bharat and Bhumisuta stepped down and started walking towards Kolutola where Jadugopal would be waiting for them. ‘Careful! Careful!’ Bharat scolded as Bhumisuta slipped and stumbled over pits and ruts. ‘Push the veil off your face and mind where you’re going. Who knows you here?’ Bhumisuta did not reply. Nor did she unveil her face
. Her heart beat fast with trepidation. Had she done right? She was a doomed creature. Who knew what destiny had in store for her now?

  As they reached the mouth of Hadhkatar Gali a group of men came rushing out of it brandishing swords and flaming mashals and yelling at the top of their voices. Before either of them could react another group emerged from Malanga Gali also carrying lights and weapons and shouting obscenities. Sensing a communal clash was about to break out, people screamed and ran this way and that. Bharat stretched out a hand to pull Bhumisuta away to a place of safety but before he could reach her he was felled to the ground by the butt of a sword and the rampaging horde passed over him stamping and kicking till his body became a mass of cuts and bruises. As soon as he could, Bharat gathered himself slowly together and, rising to his feet, looked around for Bhumisuta. She had disappeared.

  By now a cavalcade of mounted policemen had come riding in. Doom! Doom! Shots were fired into the air and the confusion increased a hundred fold. Bharat found himself wedged in a mass of human bodies running towards Sealdah and there was no option for him but to run along with them. But he kept his eyes skinned for Bhumisuta and called out, ‘Bhumi! Where are you?’ till his voice was hoarse and cracking. But there was no answering call. There were some women in that sea of humanity but they were either serving women or prostitutes.

  The riot was quelled in an hour. The crowd dispersed and Bharat returned to the scene of the clash. The police had gone and so had the rioters but the injured and the dead still lay where they had fallen. Bharat peered into each face but they were all the faces of men. Then he examined the nullahs by the side of the road. Bhumisuta may have lost her footing and fallen into one of them. Then she had either fainted or twisted her foot so badly that she had been unable to climb on to the road again. But, though he combed the entire area with dogged perseverance he found no trace of Bhumisuta. Bharat’s heart beat heavily within him. What had he done? He had persuaded Bhumisuta to leave what was, after all, a secure shelter and expose herself to the outside world. And, in the process, he had lost her. What was happening to her now? Had she been abducted and carried to a cheap brothel in the red light area which was only a few yards away?