First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  But even as the days flew by, Bharat was unable to rid himself of his sense of guilt with regard to Bhumisuta. Now, all his hopes of meeting her and begging her for her forgiveness were gone, for he had heard from Shashibhushan, who had visited him once, that Bhumisuta had been removed from Bhabanipur and was how employed as a maid in the mansion at Circular Road. That meant he would never see her again. What was worse, she was in greater danger then ever. Suhasini, in an effort to remove her from her husband’s proximity, had thrown her from the frying pan into the fire. The Maharaja’s mansion was a lion’s den with himself as the most powerful and ferocious of all the animals that lurked there. The Maharaja appreciated beauty and talent in women. He was sure to notice Bhumisuta and then who could stop him from taking her as his kachhua? Certainly not Bhumisuta herself. What power could the poor girl wield against the selfish, tyrannical king? Every time he thought of Bhumisuta in the Maharaja’s bedchamber his blood boiled with fury. And his inability, to protect her stung him like a thousand scorpions.

  Bharat was too overwrought these days to concentrate on his studies. He turned the pages of his books without taking in a word and wondered why he was wasting his time with them. What he needed was not a college degree but a means of making a living. For a man was not a man while he depended on another.

  One evening Bharat sat in his kitchen making tea. Mahim had disappeared a few days ago with Bharat’s savings and a couple of vessels and Bharat had decided not to employ another servant. He drank a lot of tea these days. It helped to keep him awake and it also dulled the appetite.

  Placing the kettle on the blazing wood he put in the tea leaves, milk and sugar and waited for the mixture to boil. Then he strained it over a piece of rag into a glass. The kettle was large enough to make three glasses at a time. As he was pouring out his second glass he heard a sound; a thud as of something falling from a height. Turning around he got the shock of his life for standing at the door, partly concealed by the shadows, was a man. Bharat hadn’t lit the lantern for it wasn’t quite dark yet and the light coming in from the gas lamp in the street was enough to work by. ‘Who? Who’s that?’ Bharat cried, his voice faint and trembling a little.

  ‘Namaskar go Dada. Namaskar,’ the man came forward grinning amicably. ‘I caught the smell of your tea and couldn’t resist the urge to have a few sips.’ Bharat stared at him. He was fairly young with a tall gaunt body and a long nose sticking out of a thin bony face. His head was shaven in front and a thick shikha sprang up from behind. He wore neither vest nor shirt. A fold of his frayed dhuti was wrapped around his chest and shoulders. Bharat breathed a sigh of relief. If he wasn’t a ghost Bharat had nothing to fear. He could fell the weak, malnourished body to the ground in a few seconds. ‘Ki go Dada!’ the man laughed, ‘Did I frighten you?’

  ‘N-no …’ Bharat stammered. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I live next door. Our roofs touch one another.’

  ‘But this house doesn’t have a roof.’

  ‘Can a house be built without a roof? What you mean is there are no stairs to your roof. But there are footholds and I can climb like a cat. I used to come to this house often when Nitai Babu lived here. I called his wife Bara Mami, However, all that is of no consequence. Won’t you offer me some tea?’

  Bharat lit his lantern and poured out a glass of tea for his guest. Cradling it in both hands the man drank great gulps from it with noises of relish, talking all the while. ‘My name is Bani Binod Bhattacharya. My grandfather named me Bani Binod. My neighbours call me Ghanta Bhatta and look down on me because I’m a priest by profession. If they could see the respect I get from my jajamans! Rich, fat Kayastha kartas touch my feet in veneration. There’s a Basak family in Shobha bazar, very wealthy, where the ginni washes my feet with her own hands and drinks the water. Can I have another glass? Do you know that I can’t get a drop of tea in my own house? My wife refuses to make it. She says it’s a mlechha drink …’

  This was on the first day. After that Bani Binod came often and sat with Bharat in his kitchen chatting and drinking tea. Gradually Bharat came to know all about him. Though less than thirty years old he had two wives and seven children already. His first wife lived with her four children in Halisahar. His second wife was here with him in Calcutta. He hadn’t much learning. His Sanskrit was faulty but he had a few rich jajamans nevertheless. With his sharp features, fair complexion, long shikha and thick white poité, he was quite impressive looking and had access to the women’s quarters of several distinguished houses of Calcutta. The family priest was the one male with whom women from even the most conservative families could talk freely, for they had to assist him in his work. They picked flowers and bel leaves, washed the vessels, prepared the sandal paste and sat by while he recited his mantras. Bani Binod knew a lot about what went on in the inner quarters of wealthy families—gossip which he shared freely with Bharat. In such families the men often kept mistresses and spent the nights away from their wives. Bored and unhappy, these women formed relationships—with cousins, brothers-in-law and even friends of their husbands. And they used the family priest as their go-between, paying him handsomely for his services. This, according to Bani Binod, brought him more money than his appointed salary. Without it, in fact, he would have difficulty feeding his family.

  When Bharat heard this he had an idea. ‘Bhattacharaya Moshai!’ he said, ‘Many rajas and maharajas have taken up residence in Calcutta. Why don’t you work for one of them?’

  ‘I would jump at it if I got the chance. But why should a maharaja employ me? The city is full of priests—far more learned than me. They come buzzing like flies at the smell of a job. Why, last Thursday they were feeding Brahmins in Rani Rasmoni’s house in Janbazar. I went in the hope of a good bellyful and a gift. But what I saw there made my head reel! Oré baap ré! About a thousand Brahmins were sitting in rows waiting to be served. The competition is getting tougher everyday. Soon I’ll have to starve with my wives and children—’

  ‘The Maharaja of Tripura is here in Calcutta. He’s very religious and will need a family priest. Why don’t you try your luck there?’

  ‘What kind of maharaja? Where is Tripura?’

  ‘Tripura is an independent kingdom. Haven’t you heard of it? The Maharaja is very generous. If he’s pleased with you he’ll think nothing of taking off his diamond ring and putting it on your finger.’

  ‘Really!’ Bani Binod said excitedly ‘Where is the house? I’ll go tomorrow. Do they speak Bengali?’

  ‘Yes, of course. The Maharaja is very fond of hearing the padavalis of the old Vaishnav pada kartas. If you can recite a few—’

  ‘Wonderful. I know Chandi Mangal by heart. Would you like to hear a few lines?’

  Bharat took it for granted that Bani Binod would be employed by Maharaja Birchandra Manikya and gain access to his andar mahal. And then—he would surely meet Bhumisuta! Bhumisuta had made all the arrangements for the daily puja in the house of the Singhas. Surely she would be given the same duties in the Maharaja’s mansion. Bharat could send her a letter through Bani Binod.

  Bharat imagined her standing on the landing outside the puja-room. She wore a white sari and held a basket full of flowers in her hand. Her face was like a flower too—a new-blown lotus. There was a startled expression in her long dark eyes and drops of dew in her hair. ‘Do not misunderstand me Bhumi,’ he started composing the letter in his mind. ‘Don’t turn away from me in disgust. I’m helpless. I have to live by the will of others. But, one day, when I’m my own master I shall come to you. I shall stand by your side and …’

  Chapter XXVI

  One Friday morning in early May two carriages set off from Jorasanko towards the river where the Sarojini lay anchored in midstream. Jyotirindranath and Gyanadanandini occupied one of them. Robi and Jyotirindranath’s friend Akshay Chowdhury sat in the other with Gyanadanandini’s children. The ship was to sail that day for the first time and Gyanadanandini had insisted on accompanying her brother-in-la
w on her maiden voyage. Jyotirindranath had tried to discourage her. He had pointed out that this was a test venture undertaken with the goal of identifying defects in the vessel. It would be risky taking women and children along. But Gyanadanandini had dismissed his feeble protests with her customary force. She had crossed the oceans to England, she reminded him. That too alone, without a male escort. What danger could there possibly be in a mere river journey? If the worst came to the worst they all knew how to swim.

  The carriages clattered out of Chitpur Street past the mosque and shops and came to a stop at the ferry in Koilaghat. The passengers had barely descended when several boatmen came running up to Jyotrindranath who, with his gold pince nez, pleated dhuti and silk kameez was immediately identified as the leader of the group. Like pandas at a place of pilgrimage they swarmed around him pointing out the merits of their respective crafts and offering to row the party to where their ship was anchored. Pushing their way through the crowds Bibi and Robi walked down to the edge of the river where a number of boats bobbed up and down in the murky water. ‘Just like banana flower husks,’ Bibi turned to her uncle eagerly. ‘Isn’t that so Robi ka?’ Though twelve years old Bibi wore a frock over long stockings. She still hadn’t learned to manage a sari.

  ‘The ones with the chhois look like vamped slippers,’ Robi answered, ‘Giants like Meghnad could wear a pair of them.’

  The two burst out laughing. After a while the others caught up with them. The crowds at the ferry ghat stared at the sight of so many good-looking men and women together. The men, in particular, couldn’t take their eyes off Gyanadanandini. She wore a Benares silk sari of a rich ghee colour which set off her golden skin to perfection. The diamond flower in her enormous khonpa glittered like a starry constellation. She looked as beautiful and majestic as a queen.

  A boat was finally selected and they all climbed in. The children’s faces paled a little as it rocked violently over the great waves that came rolling up with every movement of the large vessels around them. Gyanadanandini laughed their fears away. ‘You know how to swim,’ she reminded them, ‘Why are you scared?’ They were all good swimmers, Robi and Jyotirindra in particular. All except Akshay Babu. ‘I should have learned to swim,’ he muttered clinging to the side of the boat with both hands. Then, suddenly, he gave a cry of alarm. ‘O ki! O ki! A ship is coming straight towards us. O Jyoti Babu! We’ll all be crushed to death.’

  ‘Why that’s my Sarojini! Jyotirindranath stood up in his excitement. ‘Oré! Stop the boat. Stop it!’

  ‘Don’t worry Karta,’ the boatman answered coolly. ‘We’re taking you to your ship. You’ll be there in a few seconds all safe and sound.’

  The party looked on in expectation as the Sarojini glided towards them. They could see her clearly now. In her gleaming white paint with the two lifeboats by her side, she looked as beautiful and stately as a swan floating over the water with her cygnets. The boatmen maneuvered the craft with their accustomed skill and brought it to a halt alongside the ship. As soon as they did so a rope ladder was unwound from the Sarojini and thrown into the boat. The children clambered up easily enough. Now it was Gyanadanandini’s turn. The men looked on with worried expressions but Gyanadanandini was unfazed. Tucking the end of her sari firmly into her waist she took off her shoes and placed a foot, as pink and tender as a lotus bud, on the first rung. Robi and Jyotirindra put out their hands to help her but she pushed them away. ‘I used to climb trees as a child,’ she said laughing, making her way up on firm and fearless feet. Akshay Babu was a different proposition altogether. ‘Oré baba ré,’ he cried out with every step. ‘This rope is swinging like a coconut palm in a storm. I’ll fall. I’m falling. O Jyoti Babu!’

  The lower deck was for ordinary passengers. Three cabins, lavishly appointed, for the use of the master and his friends, stood on the vast upper deck set out with chairs under gaily striped umbrellas. Here the whole party relaxed after their climb while the servants served them hot tea and freshly made nimki. It was a bright morning with a strong wind. Gyanadanandini’s hair flew out of its restricting pins and she had difficulty in keeping her sari in place. Akshay Babu’s cigar was blown away from his mouth and fell into the water at which everyone laughed gaily. Looking at them no one could have guessed that a violent tragedy had disrupted their lives only a month ago. They were aristocrats and didn’t display their emotions like ordinary people. It seemed as though Kadambari’s memory had faded from their minds. No one had taken her name even once so far.

  Robi stood on the deck clutching his flying hair with one hand and the rail with the other. As his eyes looked out on the vast stretch of water a wave of nostalgia swept over him. He had seen the Ganga in her many moods—dark and sullen before an impending storm; rose-flushed at sunset; and a ribbon of silver under a radiant moon. And always, always, Kadambari had been by his side—her face bright and eager, her eyes entranced. ‘Look at that tree Robi,’ she would cry out, ‘Look how the branches are bending over the river, as if they are whispering deep, dark secrets in her ear.’ She had loved trees and taught Robi to love them.

  A kite, circling above the water, gave a piercing cry startling Robi. And, suddenly, the sky resounded with the call of Robi’s own heart, ‘Natun Bouthan! Natun Bouthan.’ The hard knot in his throat melted and quick warm tears rose to his eyes.

  ‘Robi,’ Gyanadanandini had come quietly up to him. She caught the expression in his eyes and her face hardened a little. Putting her hand on his arm she said softly. ‘It’s beautiful—isn’t it?’ Robi turned to her, trying to smile.

  ‘What are those boats?’ Gyanadanandini pointed a finger. ‘They all look the same. Where are they going?’

  ‘Those are passenger boats. They ferry Babus to and from their offices in Calcutta.’

  ‘You must write a description of this voyage Robi—a day-to-day account. Like you did on your trip to Europe.’

  At this moment Bibi and Suren came running up to their mother clamouring to be allowed to go down and see the rest of the ship. ‘Go,’ Gyanadanandini gave her permission. ‘But only with Robi Kaka. Robi!’ She threw him a meaningful glance. ‘Take the children with you and show them the ship.’ Robi hastened to obey.

  Now Gyanadanandini made her way to Jyotirindranath’s cabin. She stood for a moment, her hand on the door. Then, making up her mind, she turned the knob and walked in. Jyotirindra lay on his bed but not in sleep. Stretched out on the milk white sheets he looked like a Greek god; a figure of sculpted marble. But the lines of his face were drawn and melancholy and his eyes were dazed and expressionless. He saw his sister-in-law walk in and take her place by his side but he said nothing. Neither did Gyanadanandini. She stood in silence for a few minutes allowing him to imbibe her presence. Then, very gently, she placed her soft moist palm on his forehead.

  Her touch had the strangest effect on Jyotirindranath. It seemed as though the marble figure quivered into life. He sat up, his face working, harsh dry sobs racking his chest. ‘Why did she do this to me Mejo Bouthan?’ he cried turning to her desperately. ‘Why didn’t she tell me how she felt? If she had even hinted I would have … I would have. I never knew she was so unhappy. I thought she liked to be by herself; to think her own thoughts. I never dreamed. People look at me …’ Gyanadanandini allowed him to rave for a few minutes. He needed to unburden himself. And he could only do so before her. They were both the same age and she was his friend and confidante. ‘Don’t blame yourself Natun,’ she said after a while, her voice soft but firm, ‘It was all her own fault. She could have done worse. She could have ruined our family’s reputation. Thank God that was averted. Her death has been a blessing to her and to us all.’

  Jyotirindranath stared at her in amazement. Her face, radiant and beautiful as the Goddess Durga’s with the same golden complexion, arched eyebrows, red lips and flashing eyes smiled down on him. Taking his face between her hands she pressed it to her breast murmuring sweet endearments in his ears, ‘Natun! Natun!’ she whispered, running
her fingers through his hair.

  ‘Don’t grieve Natun. You have a whole life to live. You have so much to achieve. You must be strong. She’s gone but I am here with you. Your Bardada lives in his own world. Your Mejdada is busy furthering his career. Baba Moshai depends on you. Besides you have your own work now. You have to compete with the British and beat them at their own game. I’ll help you. I’ll stay by your side—always.’ Jyotirindra’s tears fell thick and fast dampening the satin that covered her soft breasts. Taking his chin in her fingers she raised his face and wiped the tears tenderly away. The two gazed deep into one another’s eyes.

  Suddenly a sound of footsteps running on the deck was heard and Akshay Babu’s voice called out ‘O Jyoti Babu Moshai! Do you know that your ship doesn’t have a captain? There’s no one to guide it. Heaven knows where we are going!’ Jyotirindra ran a hand over his face and hair and rose hastily to his feet. Stepping out on to the deck he found Robi and the children. They, too, had discovered that the captain, a Frenchman, was absconding and the ship was now being steered by a couple of common sailors.

  Jyotirindranath had employed the Frenchman not merely because he had a preference for the race but because the man was skilled at his work, and knew a great deal about the ship’s mechanism. But he had one grave defect. He drank heavily, not everyday, but once in a while and then passed out. Doubtless, that was what had happened. He had been celebrating on the eve of his maiden voyage on the Sarojini and had drunk himself into a stupour. Jyotirindra looked on the frightened faces around him and sat down—his head between his hands. It was too late to go back. On the other hand, a ship without a captain was like a boat without oars. Who knew in which direction the ship was heading?