First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘The relief is temporary. In the long run alcohol can only worsen your condition. If you want to kill yourself it’s your decision. But don’t blame me.’

  ‘Why do you call it alcohol? I drink Ma Kali’s prasad! Ambrosia! Jai Ma Kali! ‘Then, suddenly losing his temper, he banged his fist on the table and cried, ‘You have no right to lecture me. You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to give me medicine that will cure me.’ His red eyes looked angrily into the doctor’s implacable ones. But only for a few moments. Then a wistful look came into them like that of a little boy begging for a toy. ‘Won’t you?’ he asked in a pleading voice.

  ‘I will on two conditions. You won’t touch a bottle while under my treatment. And you’ll walk to the Ganga everyday and take a few dips.’

  ‘Very well,’ Girish answered. ‘Can I recite mantras in praise of Kali while I take my dip?’

  ‘Mantras or Shakespeare—you may recite what you will. It makes no difference to me. What you need is some exercise and I’m determined that you get it. By the way, I hear very good reports of your new play. When can I come and see it?’

  ‘Come this Saturday. I’ll reserve a box for you.’

  ‘I’ll bring this young man along,’ Dr Mahendralal Sarkar announced. ‘Take a good look at him. He’s your dream cousin—Shashibhushan Singha.’

  A few days later, Maharaja Birchandra lay sprawled, half naked, on his bed while two maids wiped him down tenderly with gamchhas wrung out in hot water. Monomohini stood by his side holding his silver hookah in her hands. Birchandra had to have a pull, now and then, even while performing his bodily functions. ‘Another three days Mono,’ he said, ‘And I’ll be as good as new. This doctor’s medicine has worked wonders, I must admit. Hike the fellow. He knows his job.’

  ‘Daktar Babu’s voice is so loud and deep—it booms like thunder.’ Monomohini said, quite unexpectedly, ‘And his face! How red and angry it is! I was frightened to death.’

  ‘When did you see him?’ Birchandra’s brows came together in disapproval. Monomohini was so childish and wayward. She ran about everywhere instead of keeping herself decorously within the zenana as befitted her status. He didn’t know how to control her. Frowning over these thoughts he suddenly fell asleep. Monomohini smiled wickedly and, putting the hookah to her lips, took a deep pull. Coughing and spluttering, she ran out of the room into the next. Flinging open her cupboard she pulled out all her saris and threw them on to the floor. Then she went and stood before a portrait of Queen Victoria. Glaring at it for a long moment she put out her tongue and grimaced at Her Royal Majesty. Next, she fell to pulling the books from the shelves, tearing out leaves and scattering them around the room. She felt bored and restless in the tiny apartment. There was no one to talk to or play with. The Maharaja was sick and slept most of the time. Prince Samarendra was busy with his new hobby—photography. She, who was used to a palace, felt she was living in a hen coop.

  After a while she could bear it no longer. Slipping out of her apartments she went down the stairs to the front wing where Shashibhushan’s office and private rooms were housed. As she crossed the veranda a melodious sound wafted into her ears. Someone was singing. The voice was low and husky and incredibly sweet. Following it she came to a door and pushed it open. In a tiny room, dark and damp, a girl sat crosslegged on the floor combing her hair before a small mirror propped up in front of her. She was obviously a maid of the household. But how sweetly she sang, swaying from side to side, as she drew the fine comb down the long strands! Monomohini stared in surprise.

  Maids were not allowed to raise their voices even in speech. And this one dared to sing! Besides she was obviously well trained. From where had she learned the art? For, though Monomohini knew nothing about music, she knew instinctively that what she was hearing was very superior indeed. ‘Who are you?’ she asked abruptly as the singer, startled by her entry, sprang to her feet. ‘What’s your name?’ She had never seen the girl before but the latter evidently knew who she was. For she knelt, very respectfully, at the young queen’s feet and touched her forehead to the ground. ‘My name is Bhumisuta,’ she said shyly. Monomohini decided that she liked her. ‘Sing some more,’ she commanded. Then, when the singing was over, she took her by the hand and dragged the protesting girl to her own room.

  One morning, a few days later, Birchandra stood outside Monomohini’s apartment a puzzled frown on his face. The sound of a sweet voice singing in an alien tongue came floating out of the closed door. He wondered who it was. Pushing the door open he walked in to see a strange sight. On the flowered Persian carpet covering the floor Monomohini sat at her ease, her legs spread out before her. And kneeling by her side was a girl. She held a pair of cymbals in her hands which tinkled delicately to the rhythm of her song. Her eyes were closed and her head swayed to the music like a flower on a stalk. The Maharaja was charmed.

  Monomohini turned eagerly to her husband as he walked in. ‘This girl’s name is Suto,’ she announced. ‘She’s my friend. She’s teaching me to sing.’ Bhumisuta rose and prostrated herself at the Maharaja’s feet. The puzzled frown on Birchandra’s face deepened. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere,’ he murmured. ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘From Orissa, Maharaj.’

  ‘Stand up and let me see you properly. Raise your face to mine. Hmm! I have seen you somewhere. I know your face.’

  Bhumisuta felt quite alarmed. Why did the Maharaja insist that he had seen her? She knew, for a certainty, that she had never seen him in her life. Seating himself on a sofa Birchandra commanded. ‘Sing a song. It’s time for my bath. I can’t stay long.’ Bhumisuta knelt at his feet and commenced singing

  ‘Madhava bahut minati kari toi Déhi tulasi til déha samarpalun Daya jani chhodbi moi’

  Birchandra wagged his head from side to side calling out ‘Bah! Bah!’ from time to time. ‘Who taught you to sing?’ he asked at the conclusion of the song. Bhumisuta lowered her eyes and murmured, ‘My father, Maharaj.’

  That evening Birchandra sent for Shashibhushan. ‘Ohé Shashi,’ he greeted him heartily as soon as he entered, ‘My wife has discovered a gem this morning. She was hiding in your household like a pearl in an oyster.’

  ‘Hiding in my household? I don’t understand you Maharaj.’ ‘Her name is Bhumisuta and she says she comes from Orissa. She’s a lovely girl and has the voice of a cuckoo. The moment I saw her face I felt I knew her. I was sure I had seen her before. I thought and thought and suddenly I had the answer. You remember the bunch of photographs you sent me last year? She was in one of them. Standing in a garden with a basket of flowers over one arm. I remember commenting: “This is excellent Shashi. Good enough to win a prize in a competition.” It was the same girl—was it not?’

  Shashibhushan was astonished. What a memory the king had! He had recognized Bhumisuta from a photograph taken over a year ago. But what was Bhumisuta doing in the royal apartments? She had been sent by his sister-in-law to look after him. She wasn’t the king’s servant.

  ‘Now tell me frankly what you propose to do with her,’ the Maharaja continued. ‘Do you wish to marry her or to keep her as your concubine?’ Shashibhushan blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Neither Maharaj,’ he answered. ‘She’s a servant in my household. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with you Bengalis. You haven’t learned to value women. A girl as pretty as that one and with such a voice, shouldn’t be allowed to remain a servant. She’s a jewel that a man should wear on his neck. If you wish to marry her I can make all the arrangements.’

  ‘No Maharaj. I have no wish to marry just now. I’m enjoying my freedom.’

  The Maharaja frowned, obviously following a train of thought. Then, shaking his head sadly, he murmured, ‘All my life I’ve cherished the wish that someone, a woman with a lovely voice, would sing me to sleep with the verses of the ancient pada kartas. But I never found such a woman. My queens know nothing of music. I try to teach them but they are too stupid to learn. Excepting Bhanumati of c
ourse. She was a queen among queens. So beautiful and talented! Such a fine singing voice! Many were the Manipuri ballads she sang to me. But alas! She went away leaving me desolate. She thought I had ceased to love her. But that wasn’t true. I’ve cared for her son Samar—have I not?’ Birchandra’s eyes misted over and he covered his face dramatically with his hands.

  This mood, however, did not last long. Like a ripple in a river it disappeared after a few seconds. Uncovering his face he turned eagerly to Shashi. ‘I wish to take Bhumisuta with me to Tripura. She can live in the palace and sing me to sleep every night. Go Shashi. Bring her to me. I am in a fever of impatience to hear that melodious voice again. And Shashi—buy her some colourful saris and a pair of earrings. Take the money from the khazanchi.’ Shashibhushan was thoroughly alarmed. The Maharaja had decided to appropriate Bhumisuta; to take her to Tripura and keep her as his concubine. But Bhumisuta did not belong to Shashibhushan. She belonged to Monibhushan. What if he refused to release her? The king, for all his easygoing nature, was very stubborn. If he fancied a thing he wouldn’t rest till he had got it. How would Shashi manage to fend him off? Biting his lips worriedly he went in search of Bhumisuta. He found her at the bottom of the stairs lighting the lamps. She wore a faded blue cotton sari torn in places and smudged with lamp black. Her hair was loose and hung untidily down her back.

  ‘Why is your sari so shabby and dirty?’ Shashibhushan snapped at the girl. ‘Change into something else and come at once. The Maharaja wants to hear you sing.’ Bhumisuta raised her large dark eyes to his and shook her head. ‘What do you mean?’ Shashibhushan cried. ‘The Maharaja commands you. How can you refuse?’

  ‘I won’t go,’ Bhumisuta said steadily her dark limpid gaze fixed on Shashibhushan’s face. ‘I’m not a baiji that I’ll sing before strangers.’

  ‘Why did you go to his room then?’ Shashi gnashed his teeth at her. ‘You went creeping into his rooms like a greedy cat. And now you shake your head with chastity and virtue. That won’t do—you know. It’s the Maharaja’s command. You’ll have to obey.’ Shashibhushan caught Bhumisuta’s unflinching gaze and lost courage. ‘Please come,’ he begged humbly, ‘Just this once.’

  Bhumisuta laughed. ‘Tell him I’m not well,’ she said softly, feeling sorry him. ‘Tell him I have a headache and am lying in my room.’ Then, turning, she walked away her hair swaying, her alta-covered feet flashing white and crimson on the marble floor.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Star theatre in Beadon Street was full to overflowing. Girish Ghosh’s Chaitanya Leela had been running for two months now and was still drawing packed houses. Hindus, riding triumphantly on the crest of a religious revival, were pouring into the theatre every evening from the most obscure lanes and bylanes of Calcutta as well as from suburbs and villages. It was rumoured that the god of love, Sri Gouranga, had appeared on earth in person and was making himself known to his worshippers.

  Sitting in his room in Dakshineswar, Ramkrishna heard his disciples talk animatedly about the new play. Unlike the ashrams of most holy men where only the guru’s voice was heard, raised solemnly in prayer or oration, Ramkrishna’s room echoed with noise and laughter. The half-crazed priest of Kali encouraged all manner of talk, even going to the extent of exchanging crude jokes with his disciples. And now, after hearing them praise the play to the skies, he declared his intention of going to see it. This put his disciples in a quandary. They stole furtive looks at one another and fell silent. How could they take their guru to a common playhouse? There were rogues, lechers and drunks among the audience. And the actresses were whores. The playwright himself was a notorious alcoholic who got so drunk during the course of the play that he had to be carried home every night. Ramkrishna’s disciples hastened to dissuade him pointing out that men of his stature did not visit such dens of iniquity. Even Vidyasagar, who always saw women as victims, had turned away from the theatre when he learned that the actresses led loose, unchaste lives. Keshab Sen and Shibnath Shastri did not step, even by mistake, into a public theatre considering it the deadliest of sins. But all this advice rolled off like raindrops from a yam leaf. Ramkrishna paid no heed to them. ‘I won’t see them as whores!’ he exclaimed with a radiant smile. ‘In my eyes they’ll appear as pure and chaste as my Ma Anandmayee!’

  Unable to fend him off the disciples had to agree. It was decided that Mahendra Mukherjee would send his carriage to pick him up from Dakshineswar from where he would journey to Calcutta with some of his followers. He would stop at Mahendra Babu’s flour factory at Hathibagan for a brief rest after which they would proceed to Beadon Street.

  When the carriage came Ramkrishna clambered in grinning from ear to ear. Then, as the horses clattered out of the temple premises, he sat quietly by the window observing the landscape and humming a little tune. After a couple of hours the followers, who had dozed off with the movement of the carriage, were startled to hear an angry snarl. ‘Hazra says he’s going to teach me a lesson. Sala!’ They glanced at one another maintaining a studied silence. They knew, from experience, that their guru became a trifle disoriented and spoke out of context just before a bhav samadhi. This time, however, Ramkrishna pulled himself out of it with an effort and announced, ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘We should have brought some water,’ one of the disciples exclaimed, ‘And some food.’ ‘Thakur won’t eat anything now—,’ another began but Ramkrishna stopped him with a muttered, ‘Yes I will. But I must empty my bowels first. The urge is growing stronger every moment.’ The disciples stared at one another in dismay. What would they do now?

  Fortunately they were close to their destination and arrived there in a few minutes. As soon as they descended Ramkrishna was bundled off to the lavatory from where he emerged, after a while, smiling broadly. He had had a wash and drops of water still clung to his hair and beard. ‘Ahh!’ he sighed in deep satisfaction, then taking the green coconut that was offered, he drank the sweet milky water at one draught.

  That evening, the street outside Star theatre was choc-a-bloc with landaus, phaetons and hackney coaches. Pacing up and down at the entrance Girish Ghosh eyed the crowd at the ticket counter with satisfaction. Soon they would put up the HOUSE FULL sign as they had been doing for the last two months. Girish felt too old and ill to prance around on stage these days. He made it a point, instead, to stand at the gate every evening and welcome all the distinguished personages who came to see his plays. Colonel Alcott, leader of the Theosophical Movement, had arrived already accompanied by the eminent professor from St Xavier’s College—Father Lafon. Bijay Krishna Goswami of the Brahmo Samaj had followed them. Girish had just ushered in Mahendralal Sarkar and Shashibhushan Singha when he saw a carriage roll up and stop at the gate. A couple of men leaped down from the box and, opening the door of the carriage, helped someone to alight. Though it was getting dark Girish recognized the man. It was Ramkrishna of Dakshineswar.

  Before Girish could get over his astonishment Mahendra Mukherjee came bustling up to him and announced ponderously, ‘Our revered preceptor Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa Deb has expressed a desire to see your Chaitanya Leela and is here tonight. Do we have to buy tickets?’ Girish frowned. He had seen Ramakrishna twice and been unimpressed. And, even more than the holy man, he found himself out of sympathy with his band of followers. They buzzed around him like flies and constantly expected favours from others. ‘I’ll give him a pass,’ Girish said, his jaw hardening, ‘But the rest of you will have to buy tickets.’

  Girish was flattered, of course, by Ramkrishna’s arrival. Groups of Vaishnav pandits from Nadia Shantipur were coming every day the subject being close to their hearts. But to be able to entice a Kali Sadhak to see Chaitanya Leela was a great victory! The fame of his play had clearly spread far beyond Calcutta! His heart swelled with triumph. Greeting Ramkrishna with polite deference he escorted him, personally, to a box upstairs. Ramkrishna looked around with lively interest marvelling at the bright lights, the velvet curtains and the crowds of people. He h
ad never seen anything like this before. The pit downstairs was crammed with spectators—talking, laughing and gesticulating. And, upstairs, in boxes similar to the one in which he sat, were ensconced the wealthy elite of Calcutta. Servants fanned their masters with wide palm leaf fans and held out elegant albolas with long silver pipes. In some of the boxes he even saw cases full of bottles, crystal decanters and long-stemmed glasses.

  Seeing Ramkrishna sweating profusely on that warm September evening, Girish Ghosh sent for a servant and bid him fan his guest. Then he went away reappearing, a few minutes later, with a dark red rose in his hand. As he handed it to Ramkrishna the latter stared at him in bewilderment ‘Ogo!’ he said in his quaint sing song voice, ‘What shall I do with this? Flowers are for gods and rich babus.’ Girish Ghosh hurried away without answering. The orchestra had started playing the Overture and the curtain would rise any minute. Besides, he had started to feel the familiar spasms slowly contorting his insides. They would grow in intensity, as he knew from experience, till his abdomen felt as if on fire. The best thing for him would be to go home. Amritalal would take care of any emergency that might arise in his absence. Hurrying across the courtyard and out of the gate he hailed a hackney cab and went home.

  Ramkrishna moved excitedly in his chair rolling his eyes and wagging his head in delight. ‘Bah! Bah!’ he cried, it’s a grand house! What shining furniture! What carpets! What curtains! I’m glad I came.’ Then, shutting his eyes, he murmured, ‘People! So many people. When many human beings congregate in one place He manifests himself. I see Him clearly. One becomes All and All become One.’ Then, opening his eyes, he turned to one of his followers and asked in an everyday voice, ‘These seats must be expensive. How much will they charge?’

  The curtain rose, at this point, to reveal a pastoral scene. Outside a small hut, in the heart of a forest, a group of rishis and prostitutes were celebrating the birth of Nimai, the child who would grow into the legendary Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu. Beating their drums and cymbals they began chanting the one hundred and eight names of Krishna whose incarnation had just been born.