First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  But Abhaycharan did not take the hint. He kept sitting in his chair his mouth curled in a self-conscious smile. ‘You promised me a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘So I needn’t leave till I’ve had it. And since it will take a few minutes to arrive let me ask you a question How long can you hold out against overwhelming odds?’

  ‘I don’t have to answer that question.’

  ‘It was in bad taste—amounting to probing in your personal affairs. I admit that. Let me ask you another. If the Flotilla Company were to reduce the fare by two pice they will get all your passengers. What will you do then?’

  ‘Reduce the fare! Why would they do that? There’s not much profit in the business as it is. Why would they want to run it at a loss?’

  ‘To break you. Theirs is a large company with ships sailing in many parts of the world—England, Africa and other places in India. They can afford to lose a couple of lakhs here. They can easily make it up somewhere else. Their idea of doing good business is removing all obstacles and acquiring a monopoly. You’re the obstacle and they’ll squeeze you out even if it means incurring a loss. Then, when you’re out of the picture, they can raise the fares as and when they please.’

  ‘They will never squeeze me out! I didn’t start the business to wrap it up at a threat.’

  ‘Look Jyoti Babu. You’re gifted and creative and you have the artist’s vision. We are humble, ignorant folk and see things as they really are. The people of our country are poor; constrained to save every pie they can. Why will they pay more if they can help it? They’ll abandon your ship before you have the time to blink. That’s why I say it will be far better for you to sell out now while the going’s good.’

  Jyotirindra fixed his large dark eyes on the man’s face—not in anger but in sorrow. Compassion stirred in his heart—compassion and understanding. ‘Your words imply that I dwell in an ivory tower,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant and tinged with melancholy. ‘But let me tell you something. I am in close touch with the people of the land. And I know that though our rulers strike us mercilessly our backs are still unbroken. My passengers will not be fooled by the white men’s wiles. They’ll gladly sacrifice the two pice incentive to keep their native industry alive.’ Abhaycharan shook his head. ‘I’m a Bengali too Jyoti Babu,’ he said sadly. ‘And I would be glad to see you win. But the sahebs are too clever for us. Business runs in their blood. We’ll never beat them.’

  The Flotilla Company reduced its fare the very next day. At first the difference was not perceptible. There were plenty of passengers on Jyotirindra’s ships. Jyotirindra’s heart swelled with triumph. He had been proved right. His countrymen were with him. Then, after a week or so, things began to change. Jyotirindra’s ships left Barisal laden with passengers but returned with a mere handful. Unlike Barisal, Khulna did not have a band of students making patriotic speeches at the ghat exhorting passengers to board the native ships. Gradually the numbers began to dwindle even in Barisal. Passengers looked this way and that and, ducking them heads guiltily, ran towards the foreign ships. Within a month Jyotirindra’s ships were going up and down practically empty while the ships of the Flotilla Company were bursting at the seams.

  One day, as Jyotirindra sat booding over the disaster that had overtaken him, his manager came up and said, ‘This cannot go on any longer, sir. We’ll have to do something. Why don’t we reduce our fare by two pice?’

  ‘Two pice!’ Jyotirindra thundered banging his fist angrily on the table. ‘I’ll reduce it by four pice. Put up the notice this instant.’

  And now a tug of war ensued the like of which had never been seen before. With the reduction in the fare the passengers abandoned the Flotilla Company and came crowding into Jyotirindra’s ships. Within a few days the Flotilla Company had reduced its fare still further and Jyotirindra had followed suit. He gave orders for sweets and fruits to be distributed among the passengers and, when even that ceased to work, dhutis and saris. Travellers commuting between Khulna and Barisal had never had it so good. A four anna ticket not only took them to their destinations but took care of their breakfast as well with the added bonus of a dhuti or sari. People started travelling just for fun, the numbers swelling so greatly that Jyotirindranath was forced to employ guards who monitored the crowds and kept discipline on the ship.

  Riding high on the crest of this wave of excitement Jyotirindranath was totally unprepared for the blow that fell. Caught in a violent storm, on its way to Calcutta, Jyotirindra’s prized ship Swadeshi capsized and sank pulling down with it the entire future of the swadeshi enterprise its owner had struggled so hard to preserve. Mercifully there were no passengers on the boat. The crew managed to save their lives but the expensive cargo with which it was laden found their way to a watery grave. Jyotirindranath had sunk all his assets in the business and borrowed heavily from friends and relatives. He had been running it at a loss for the last few months. Now he found himself a pauper. Reeling under heavy debts, and broken in mind and body, Jyotirindra had to acknowledge defeat.

  This time Pyarimohan Mukhopadhyay came to see him in person. The Flotilla Company, he said, was ready to buy the rest of his ships and he would see to it, personally, that Jyotirindra got a fair price. Jyotirindra signed the contract and returned to Calcutta like a weary soldier scarred and mutilated after years of gory battle.

  Avoiding Jorasanko he went straight to his Mejo Bouthan. There was a time when he would come to her house, striding in with the majesty of a prince, his face glowing with health and energy, his magnificient figure draped in silks and velvets and the finest of Cashmere shawls. Now his face was drawn and haggard, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets and his clothes hung limp and worn on his bony frame. Gyanadanandini had heard everything. She didn’t ask any questions. Taking him by the hand she led him gently into the house.

  From that day Jyotirindra ceased to speak except in monosyllables. He kept the door of his room locked and sat in it day after day unbathed, unshaven and muttering to himself. Bibi and Suren were shocked and frightened at the change in their uncle and took furtive peeps through the windows only to find him sitting in his chair staring at the wall or the ceiling. No one knew that, for the first time in his life, he was obsessed by thoughts of Kadambari. All through his busy life his awareness of her had been shadowy; almost elusive. Now he thought of her all the time. He remembered her tender solicitude, her grace and elegance, the beauty of her mind and spirit. Who was responsible for the way her life had ended? He asked himself the question, fairly and squarely, for the first time after her death. And, diving deep into his soul, he knew he could not be exonerated. He had taken her for granted. He had judged her wrong.

  Although Jyotirindra had paid out every rupee he had received from the Flotilla Company it had not been enough to clear his debts. Now his creditors hung around Gyanadanandini’s house baying for his blood. Gyanadanandini was worried on another account. Jyoti’s behaviour was getting more and more abnormal every day. Was he losing his mind? There was a history of insanity in the Thakur family. Two of her brothers-in-law were not normal. Would Jyoti, her bright, beautiful, beloved Natun end up like them? She was too distressed even to weep. Her husband was away from Calcutta.

  Her father-in-law had not been told anything of what had happened. To whom could she turn for advice? After some deliberation she decided to consult the famous barrister Taraknath Palit who was also their family friend.

  Taraknath Palit was Satyendranath’s closest friend and a man of phenomenal wealth. He had always looked upon Satyendranath’s family as his own and treated Jyotirindranath as a younger brother. Now, at this hour of need, he truly proved himself. Calling all the creditors together he took stock of the situation. Assessing the exact amount of damages he made Jyotirindra sign a bond promising to pay back whatever he owed in easy instalments. A good amount he disbursed initially from his own pocket and stood guarantor for the rest.

  But though one part of Gyanadanandini’s worry was over the other remained. Jyotir
indranath sat, hour after hour, sunk in gloom refusing to communicate with anyone—not even his beloved Mejo Bouthan. Taraknath, who visited them often, suggested a change of scene. A few days in Jorasanko might be good for him, he felt. After all, that was his home. He had been born there and had spent the best years of his life in that house. There he might be able to come to terms with himself and with the changes that his destiny had wrought for him.

  Jyotirindranath stepped into his apartment and looked around with disinterested eyes. The mirror on the door had disappeared but everything else looked the same. He came and sat in a chair by the window. It was a hot, still afternoon and gusts of wind, warm and laden with the scent of bakul from the tree outside, came drifting in. And, sniffing that air, he was transported into the past. He saw himself lying prone on the bed writing … Kadambari opening her cupboard with her silver keys her slender form draped in a blue sari, her bangles jingling. And suddenly the face that had become a blur swam into view. He saw it clear and whole; the long neck, the proudly raised chin, the eyes—dark, vibrant and fringed with thick lashes—in a face that seemed cut out of marble. He knew, of course, that it was not her he saw. It was his memory of her. Memory deepened. The face came closer. And then he saw an expression on it that he couldn’t fathom. It was not anger. Nor sorrow or reproach. Only a deep yearning and melancholy. The blood pounded in his heart and great waves of it beat against his brain. That face told him, clearer than words, that he had failed her. But how? How? It was true that he had neglected her sometimes but that was only because he was busy—too busy. But he had been a good husband to her. They had had their good moments together. Sailing on the Ganga in Chandannagar; singing to her; reading out his poems and listening to her comments. Why couldn’t he see her face as it used to be then—rapt and bright and suffused with love?

  Jyotirindra stood up. He couldn’t stay here to be haunted by that long pale face and yearning eyes. He ran down the steps shaking his head like one possessed. ‘No! No!’ he cried as he ran. ‘I’ll never come back here. No. Not as long as I live.’

  Chapter XXX

  Dwarika had recently come into a fortune and had changed a great deal in consequence. He used to be a good student, an enthusiastic litterateur and an ardent patriot. But now, with the arrival of a thousand rupees a month from the estates he had inherited from his maternal uncle, he started neglecting his studies and everything else connected with it. And, as was to be expected, he started looking for ways of spending his money. Bharat watched him with dismay. He knew that a sudden change in fortune had disastrous effects on some people, but he wished it hadn’t happened to Dwarika.

  ‘Bharat,’ Dwarika said, walking into his house one evening, ‘Get ready quickly. I want to take you somewhere.’

  ‘Where?’ Bharat looked up timidly.

  ‘Don’t ask silly questions. Simply follow me.’

  Out in the street, Dwarika hailed a cab and ordered the coachman to drive in the direction of Boubazar. Coming to the end of Hadhkatar Gali he stopped before a house whose front door stood hospitably open. Dwarika paid the fare and taking Bharat by the hand, ran up the stairs, ‘I spend the night here sometimes,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘My father used to come here too. I’ve heard people say that he ran away from home two days before he was to be wed. After a frantic search he was discovered in this house and brought back just in time.’

  Reaching the top floor Bharat and Dwarika stood before a dosed door. Dwarika gave it a push and it opened easily, the hinges groaning a little. Inside, the room was flooded with light from the candles burning brightly from the eight brackets set in the walls. A huge bedstead of carved mahogany stood in the middle of the room. And, on its high mattress spread with snowy sheets, a girl, young and slender and of a dazzling beauty lay on her back, her eyes closed and her hands crossed over her breast. Her delicate limbs were draped in a heavy sari of Benares brocade and her arms and neck were weighted down with gold. The door had creaked with an agonized sound but the girl did not open her eyes. There was something unreal about the scene. A sleeping princess. The thought came into Bharat’s head as Dwarika, raising his eyebrows in mock dismay, leaned over the girl and sang softly —

  ‘Kunchita Késhini nirupam béshini

  Rasa—abéshinibhangini ré

  Adhara surangini anga tarangini

  Sangini naba naba rangini ré’

  The girl opened her eyes but did not sit up. She let her soft warm gaze rest on Dwarika. ‘She’s my friend,’ Dwarika explained to Bharat. ‘Her name is Basantamanjari.’ Then, turning to the girl he asked, ‘Why were you sleeping at this hour Basi?’ Basantamanjari yawned revealing a soft pink mouth. ‘I have a fever,’ she said in a complacent voice. ‘No you haven’t,’ Dwarika placed a hand on her brow, ‘And if you do, Why are you all dressed up? And why is there so much light in your room?’

  ‘I like dressing up. And I hate sleeping in the dark. I visit so many places in my dreams. I meet so many people—’ Waving a dazzling white hand in Bharat’s direction, she asked, ‘Who is he?’

  ‘My friend. His name is Bharat. He’s a good boy, wonderfully innocent!’

  Basantamanjari fixed her eyes, large, dark and shadowed with long lashes, on Bharat’s face. There was a slight quiver in her voice as she asked, ‘Who are you? Have I seen you before?’ Bharat shook his head. ‘But I know you,’ the strange girl continued. ‘It happens with some people. You recognize them even if you haven’t seen them before. I have seen you in my dreams.’

  ‘What rotten luck!’ Dwarika exclaimed rolling his eyes comically. ‘I squander all my money on you; buy you saris and jewels. And my friend becomes your dream companion! Are you tired of me and want a change?’

  ‘But it’s true. I see him in my dreams. I see a falchion hanging over his head. Death is stalking him!’ Her eyes fixed his with a compelling gaze, ‘Isn’t that true?’ she asked.

  Bharat felt his heart thumping against his ribs. Who was this girl and why did she look at him so strangely? There was something mysterious about her not only in what she was saying but in her manner. There were two men in her room and she went on lying on her bed. ‘What nonsense you talk!’ Dwarika scolded her tenderly. ‘Don’t listen to her Bharat. She says the strangest things at times’

  ‘It isn’t nonsense. Ask him if what I’ve said isn’t true.’

  ‘I must go,’ Bharat rose to his feet.

  ‘Why?’ Dwarika clutched his shoulder. ‘We’ve only just arrived. Let’s have some brandy. I keep a bottle here—’

  ‘No. I can’t stay. I’m going.’ Bharat flung off the restraining hand and rushed out of the room. His face was on fire and his breath came in gasps. The blood pounded in his heart. He ran down the steps and out of the open door into the street ignoring the drizzle that soaked him to the skin. He hated himself. The girl’s beauty had drawn him like a magnet and he had nearly succumbed. How could he have forgotten Bhumisuta even momentarily? Wasn’t it somewhere here, in Boubazar, that he had promised Bhumisuta he would look after her all his life? He hadn’t kept his promise. He had abandoned her. And now she was lost to him. She was in the king’s custody and he dared not go near her.

  Chapter XXXI

  In the paved yard that fronted the mansion of Jorasanko a brand new phaeton stood waiting. Its bright ochre varnish shone like gold in the morning sun. The morocco leather of the upholstery was of a rich plum colour. Two jet black horses snorted and pawed the air nervously as grooms and servants crowded around asking eagerly, ‘Whose carriage is this? Which babu’s?’

  They were not kept in the dark for long. From the side door of the khazanchi khana a young man stepped out and walked briskly towards them. He was tall and well built with a narrow beard and dark hair waving down to his neck. He wore a puckered dhuti and banian and had a shawl on his shoulders. On his feet were English socks and shining pumps. It was Robi. He was twenty-four years old and this carriage was his father’s gift to him.

  Debendranath spent mo
st of his time in his house in Chinsura. But he kept a stern eye on everything that went on in his family. More and more people were referring to him as Maharshi these days, seeing, in his self-imposed exile from Calcutta, a parallel to the lives of the ancient rishis. Yet Debendranath was an extremely calculating, pragmatic, man of the world. He had taken the deaths of his daughter-in-law, two sons-in-law and son Hemendra with exemplary calm. But, faced with the ignominious failure of Jyotirindranath’s shipping venture, he found his patience at an end. It was not only the loss of the money that he regretted. He looked upon it as a blot on his family’s honour. People would be laughing at the Thakurs of Jorasanko. And his own son was responsible. He could hardly believe it. Jyoti—his favourite, the boy on whom he had set his highest hopes, had let him down. Not once, but again and again. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t forgive him. He decided to mete out the severest punishment.

  Within days of Jyotirindranath’s return to Calcutta Debendranath proceeded to strip him of all his offices. The charge of the estates was passed on to Dwijendranath and the secretaryship of the Adi Brahmo Samaj was conferred upon Robi. Some of the family’s well wishers advised Debendranath against such a course. The boy was shattered in spirit already! He needed support and encouragement from his father—not vindictiveness of this kind. But Debendranath was unmoved by these entreaties and went on calmly with his plans.

  He raised Robi’s allowance and even arranged for a sum to be paid to his wife each month. He gave orders for the redecoration of their wing. And now he had given Robi this new carriage. The secretary of the Brahmo Samaj had to move around, meet people and organize meetings. He needed a carriage of his own. But, Debendranath’s generosity notwithstanding, he was a hard task master. Robi had to visit him every week with a report of all the activities of the Samaj and its expenses. Though pleased with his youngest son’s hard work and dedication he made it a point to chide him from time to time. ‘You did well to purchase a new harmonium,’ he had said on one occasion, ‘It was needed. But why did you send the old one for repairs? That is waste.’ Robi never answered back. He obeyed his father’s commands without question though he felt rebellious at times. He hadn’t approved of his father’s treatment of his Jyotidada. But he was powerless to protest. In his embarrassment he had stopped going to Gyanadanandini’s house.