First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Suddenly a ray of hope irradiated Bharat’s soul. Bhumisuta knew they were going to Kolutola. What if she had managed to find her way to the spot where Jadugopal stood waiting. As soon as the thought struck him he started running like one possessed down the dark deserted streets till, reaching Kolutola, he stopped short. What was that shape sitting huddled by the side of the road? Was it human or animal? He slowed his steps afraid of frightening it away. Then, coming closer, his heart gave a tremendous bound of relief. It was Bhumisuta. Bharat felt himself lifted on a great wave of happiness. It gushed out in a quick warm flood from eyes spent with hours of searching for a dearly beloved face. ‘Bhumi! Bhumi!’ he cried in a voice choking with emotion. ‘I’ve found you. Thank God I’ve found you!’ But the eyes that looked steadily back into his burned with hate. ‘So this was your plan?’ There was a vicious edge to her voice. ‘To lure me out of the house and then leave me to my fate. Go back to those sheltering walls where you belong and be happy.’

  ‘You wrong me Bhumi!’ Bharat cried passionately. ‘I didn’t leave you on purpose. I was thrown down—trampled on. I’ve walked miles and miles looking for you.’

  ‘Why? What am I to you? What do you care if I live or die? Go back. I’m an orphan and the street is my home!’

  Bharat stood still for a few minutes. He felt his heart twist cruelly within him. And, suddenly, he knew the truth. He loved Bhumisuta and couldn’t live without her. ‘Take my hand,’ he said gently but firmly. ‘And come with me. I won’t leave you … ever again.’

  Chapter XXIV

  One of the doors in Kadambari’s bedroom was hung with a mirror of valuable Belgian glass—so large that it stretched across a whole panel affording a full view of her form from head to toe. Here Kadambari stood one afternoon, combing out her long wet hair and humming a little tune to herself. Her heart felt light and free. She had whiled the whole morning away curled up on her bed reading Robi’s Sandhya Sangeet. She had become so immersed in it that she hadn’t heard the maid calling out to her that it was time for her bath and meal. It was past noon when, aware of the lateness of the hour, she had scrambled to her feet and dashed off to take a bath. Unlike her other sisters-in-law she didn’t bathe in the bathroom downstairs. Her husband had built one adjoining her apartment for her exclusive use.

  Smearing a little sindoor on her forefinger she ran it along the blunt edge of the comb. Then, with meticulous care, she drew a red line down the parting of her hair. As she did so she glanced at herself in the mirror. The dark circles under her eyes were gone. Her face had filled out and the skin on her neck and arms stretched taut and smooth as satin. She was so tired of being ill. Thank God she felt well these days—really well.

  ‘Boudimoni!’ her maid called from outside the room. ‘The cooks have brought up your meal. Shall I bring them in?’

  In the cavernous kitchens below, a dozen cooks sweated from dawn till dark cooking enormous quantities and varieties of food. Rice was boiled in huge pots, drained in baskets and poured over clean white cloth, mound over mound till it rose to a mountain. Chunks of fish, rubbed all over with salt and turmeric and fried to a golden crispness, were piled in wooden basins in hundreds. Some Were eaten plain—others cooked in sharp gravies of mustard and chillies or ginger and cumin. Some were even mixed in a sweet and tart sauce of tamarind and molasses to tempt the jaded palate. The men of the house were hearty eaters and demanded variety. The mistresses were good cooks too and stirred up a dish occasionally as and when the fancy took them.

  Till quite lately the women of the house had assembled every morning in the great veranda adjoining the storeroom with baskets of vegetables and bontis. It was a pleasant hour to which everyone looked forward. Tongues wagged pleasurably while hands peeled potatoes, sliced brinjals and shelled peas. But now many of the women were gone. Most of Debendranath’s married daughters had left Jorasanko and made homes for themselves with their husbands and children. His daughters-in-law, too, were as strangers to one another. Gyanadanandini had her own establishment in Birji Talao and Mrinalini, the youngest of them all, had been whisked away from Jorasanko even before she had made proper acquaintance with her sisters-in-law. The small knot of women that huddled together over their bontis these days was only a pale shadow of the old throng. In any case, Kadambari was not invited to join them anymore.

  As Kadambari turned away from the mirror her glance fell on the table in one corner of the room, where last night’s meal lay uneaten. Her nostrils flared in distaste. The maid was new and unused to the ways of a great family like the Thakurs of Jorasanko. She should have removed it hours ago. ‘Come in Halor Ma!’ she called out, ‘And take last night’s thala away.’

  Halor Ma entered the room and lifting the cover off the thala sniffed delicately at the pile of luchis and bowls of curried fish and vegetables. ‘What shall I do with this Boudimoni?’ she enquired.

  ‘What else can you do but throw it away?’

  ‘Throw it away! But stale luchis are good to eat.’

  ‘Eat them then!’ Kadambari laughed lightly and turned her attention to what the cooks had brought in.

  Kadambari ate little as a rule and even less when she was distressed or unhappy. Her night meal was left untouched more often than not as waiting for her husband to return strained her nerves so unbearably that the finest of delicacies tasted like sawdust in her mouth. It had been so last night. But today Was different. Her husband would come for her in the evening and take her with him to his ship where a grand celebration had been arranged. And there she would meet Robi. A wave of happiness swept over her and her stomach heaved pleasantly, craving food. Turning eagerly to the thala just brought in she lifted the cover. A mound of white rice rose in the centre, fragrant and steaming with melted ghee trickling down the sides. Several bowls surrounded it. One had finely sliced bitter gourd fried to a crackling crispness with pieces of bori. Another was filled with golden moong dal. Two others contained tender pumpkin stew and delicious smelling patal posto. And the highlight of the meal—a pair of huge lobsters in a thick coconut cream gravy—rested in an enormous bowl on one side.

  Till a few years ago the Thakurs had eaten their meals sitting on velvet asans on the marble floor. On Gyanadanandini’s return from England she had had a dining table and chairs set up in her apartments and Jyotrindra, who approved of everything his Mejo Bouthan did, followed suit. Thus Kadambari was constrained, against her wishes, to eat at a table. But unlike Gyanadanandini she didn’t use crockery and cutlery but ate from a thala using her fingers.

  Kadambari mixed some of the ghee soaked rice with the bitter gourd and ate it with relish. Then she had some dal and rice and a bit of the pumpkin stew. Suddenly an idea crossed her mind making her hand pause on its way to her mouth. There was to be a great dinner on the ship tonight. Jyotirindra had told her that he was ordering an array of delicacies from an English hotel. If she filled herself up with all this homely food now she would have no appetite left for the evening. And her husband and Robi would scold her for not eating enough.

  Putting down the rice she held in her hand she rose to her feet. She washed her hands and popping a paan into her mouth, came and stood on the veranda. She smiled wryly. The rest of the meal including the succulent lobsters would be enjoyed by Halor Ma.

  Returning to her bedroom she glanced at the clock. It was two. Her husband would come for her at six. There was plenty of time. She lay on her bed and opened Sandhya Sangeet. Turning the pages one by one, her thoughts went back to her life in Chandannagar—those long, lazy days and starry nights when a young bud was unfolding its petals gently, timidly, under her tender care. The bud had bloomed now and many bees and butterflies hovered over it. These thoughts went round and round her head till, wearying of them, she fell asleep. She woke with a start as the cuckoo in her English clock chimed the hour. One, two, three, four, five. O Ma! It was five o’ clock already. Scrambling out of bed she ran to the bathroom. She would have to get ready in a hurry. Her husband must be
on his way.

  Jyotrindranath had managed to set his ship afloat after a mammoth effort and after parting with enormous sums of money. Named after the heroine of his most successful play Sarojini, it rested now in the waters of Srirampur ready to embark on its maiden voyage down the Ganga to Khulna with goods and passengers. There would be a full moon tonight and the whole family would congregate on the deck to celebrate the success of this unique venture. When first conceived the idea had been unique but, not being secretive by nature, Jyotirindranath had been unable to keep it to himself. In consequence, a British concern called the Flotilla Company had beaten him to it and their ship was, even now, carrying cargo between Khulna and Barisal.

  Gyanadanandini had already taken possession of a couple of cabins in Sarojini and had settled in with Robi and her children. Jyotirindranath had requested her to supervise the furnishings and decor bypassing his own wife Kadambari whose taste, everyone had to admit, was impeccable. But though Kadambari had not asked for an explanation Jyotirindra had hastened to supply it. He told her that, being in competition with a British company, he had to have everything in Sarojini very westernized and modern. And, having lived in England for several years, Mejo Bouthan knew best what that was. Kadambari hadn’t uttered a word of reproach. But every time she thought of them all together, busy and happy, she felt a stab of pain in her heart, so sharp it was almost physical.

  Kadambari bathed herself in cool scented water, then opening her cupboard began to look through her saris. She had so many of them! Silks with heavy gold borders, dhakais, muslins and balucharis with elaborate motifs and intricately worked anchals lay folded in neat piles—untouched for the most part for she hardly ever went out. The last time she had worn one of these was at Hiranmayee’s wedding. There was a little prick in her heart at the memory. She hated going to Swarnakumari’s house and avoided it whenever she could. But she could hardly escape a family wedding. She had been miserable. She had stood by herself all the time while the others were rushing about laughing and talking and enjoying themselves. Even Robi seemed to be avoiding her. Suddenly she discovered a profound truth. When alone with her there was no one warmer and more understanding than Robi; no one more deeply sensitized to her feelings. But, in the presence of others, he felt guilty and ashamed and couldn’t look her in the eye. She pushed the thought aside. It was unbearable.

  Discarding one sari after another Kadambari finally chose a nayan sukh sari of kingfisher blue silk. The colour would look lovely in the moonlight. Sending for her alta dasi she had her feet painted with vermilion. Next she lit a dozen sticks of incense and let the fragrant smoke flow over each strand of her hair. She brightened her eyes with surma and darkened her brows with kajal. Then, taking up handfuls of champa flowers, she pressed them under her armpits and between her breasts. She braided her beautiful hair and, twisting it into an elaborate khonpa, fixed it in place with a jewelled comb and gold-headed pins. Finally, after draping her sari to her satisfaction, she wound a rope of fragrant juin in the blue black masses of her hair. Then, shyly, hesitantly, she approached her mirror and looked at herself. The face that looked back satisfied her and she smiled a little smile of contentment. She was looking her best and her husband was coming for her. He would bring his steamer all the way from Srirampur so that she could join in the revels by the light of the moon. Suddenly a thought occurred to her making her blood run cold. What if he didn’t come in person? What if he sent Robi? Kadambari made up her mind. She wouldn’t go with Robi. She would go only with her husband. And she would have him by her side all night. She would show Gyanadanandini … Kadambari was startled out of her thoughts by the chime of her cuckoo clock. One, two, three, four, five, six. It was six o clock. Was that a footstep she heard on the stairs? Bursting with excitement she opened the door and called out to her maid, ‘Who’s that coming up the steps Halor Ma?’ Halor Ma went to have a look but came back shaking her head. There was no one. Kadambari sat on her bed prepared to wait. Her husband was a busy man. He might be a little late but he would come …

  But the cuckoo, the cruel cuckoo, called out to Kadambari relentlessly hour after hour. Spring had come and gone but the cuckoo would not cease her song. Nine chimes! Ten! Eleven! Halor Ma had gone away and the house was dark and silent. How much longer would he be? She clung to her hopes still. He would come. He must … Only she couldn’t endure the waiting much longer. Suddenly her eyes fell on her own reflection and, in the bright light that spread from the crystal chandelier she saw the other Kadambari smile mockingly at her. ‘He’s forgotten you, you fool!’ the other one said. ‘They’ve all forgotten you. Look at you! All dressed up in your finery like a young bride about to meet her bridegroom. But you’re not a young bride. You’re a witch—an ugly, old witch and everyone despises you.’

  Kadambari covered her face with her hands and flung herself on the bed. She had been longing to do so for sometime now but hadn’t from fear of dishevelling her hair. She wanted to weep but the tears wouldn’t come. She stared up at the ceiling her eyes hard and dry. And then she did the strangest thing. She started humming to herself, her voice low and husky at first then rising to a crescendo as she gave herself up to her song:

  ‘The hours go by in waiting

  Come to my bower dear one!

  I had hoped to string a garland

  And hang it around your neck

  But alas! you came not to me

  And my flowers wilted in the waiting’

  Suddenly she stopped her song and giggled. Then, getting off the bed, she came and stood before the mirror once again. Rolling her eyes at her reflection, she hissed in a passionate voice, ‘Get out of my room you slut! Don’t dare look at me with those eyes. All dressed up too! Shame on you! Shame! Shame!’ She whirled around and, picking up Jyotirindranath’s silver-headed cane, she struck the mirror over and over again with all her might making the glass rain about her in splinters. Then, when the panel stood stripped, dark and empty, she heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Good riddance,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’ll never have to see her again.’ Then, raising her voice, she started singing her song once more.

  After a while she thought she heard a sound outside the door. ‘Who’s there?’ she called eagerly. But no one answered. She waited a while, all her senses alert—her eyes sharp and piercing as an eagle’s. ‘It’s only the south wind,’ she murmured. Craning her neck she squinted at the darkness outside. ‘Wild wind!’ she cried aloud, ‘You’re not for me. And you, you moon of the night—you’re not for me. And all you flowers! You’re not mine. No—not one of you!’ She jumped off the bed and paced restlessly up and down the marble floor stamping her feet in her agitation. ‘If I were a bird,’ she thought whimsically, ‘I could fly out of that window. I could go to my loved ones winging my way out of this great city and across the wide river. That would be best. To have no body, only a soul; a soul set free to wander at will.’

  Upon this thought she ran to the adjoining room and stood before the cupboard that was set into one wall. Turning the key with a trembling hand she wrenched the lock open and drew out, from a secret recess, a sandalwood box inlaid with ivory. It was full of jewels—diamond bracelets, a heavy moon necklace of rubies and emeralds, chokers and strings of pearls hung with jewelled pendants and many other exquisite pieces. Pushing them aside with an impatient hand she pulled out a small paper packet and tipped its contents into her palm—four balls of some sticky black substance that Bishu the weaver’s wife had given her. Bishu, from whom Kadambari bought her saris, was also a deyashini and dabbled in roots and herbs. She had given her these balls of opium to soothe her nerves and help her sleep, warning her that an overdose might bring on the sleep of death. This box also contained three letters. Kadambari had found one of them in the pocket of her husband’s jobba. The other two she had discovered tucked away between the pages of a voluminous dictionary. They were all written in the same hand—a woman’s hand. They bore no signature and no address. All three commenced with the ph
rase—More precious to me than my life itself.

  Kadambari read the letters, one by one, as she had done so many times in the past. Her breath came in short gasps and her eyes glittered as her lips mumbled forming the words. And as she read, the slow burning in her breast became a raging fire—the flames licking her body and engulfing her soul. She tore the letters into pieces; the pieces into fragments, and tossed them into the air till they flew about like snow flakes. She watched her handiwork, laughing for a while, then tipping the contents of her palm into her mouth she swallowed them with great gulps of water.

  Peace! Peace at last! She sighed a deep sigh of contentment. She was free. Free from doubt and torment. Free to go where she liked; to do what she liked. There were no walls before her now. Spreading her arms as though they were wings she darted this way and that round and round the room. But though she flew about as though she were, in truth, a gorgeous blue humming bird the white marble of the floor, littered with fragments of glass, told another story. It bore the imprints of her feet—etched not in vermilion but in blood. Kadambari felt nothing; saw nothing. She whirled on and on dancing her dance of death. Her sari impeding her movements, she pulled it off her body and flung it into a corner. Then she took off her jewels, one by one, and tossed them, laughing, into the air. Her diamond kankan hit the chandelier and fell to the floor in a shower of crystal flakes. Next she attacked her hair tugging at the comb and flower-headed gold pins till the braids, released from their confinement, fell over her back and shoulders like twisted, wounded snakes. Panting with the effort she came and sat at the table where Jyotirindranath did his writing. It was littered with his papers. She glanced at them from the corner of her eye. What was she doing here? Oh yes! She had to write a note. People always did that before they took their lives. Thank God she had remembered in time. She picked up a pen and drew a sheet of paper before her. To whom would she address her note? To Robi, of course. But, even as her pen touched the paper, two lines of poetry came to her mind. They had been written by Robi soon after the wedding. She had came across them by chance when preparing the bridal chamber.