First Light

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by Sunil Gangopadhyay


  Of late Robi was straining every nerve to bring the three groups of Brahmos under one banner. Hinduism, riding on a high new wave, was threatening to crush the Brahmo Samaj whose members were small in number and hopelessly divided. If something was not done to unify the Brahmos, he was never tired of pointing out, the Samaj would disintegrate. But, though everyone agreed with him, each section dictated its own terms and would not be swayed. Thus a consensus eluded them. But Robi did not lose heart. He went on trying.

  Now, on his way to Pratapchandra Majumdar’s house, he suddenly remembered something his father had said at their last meeting. He had been holding Robi’s Shaishab Sangeet in his hand when Robi walked into his study. Looking up from the dedication which he had obviously been reading, he had asked sternly, ‘How many books a year do you mean to print from the Brahmo Press?’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he had walked out of the room. Robi had stared at the departing back in bewilderment. He thought his father liked his poetry. He had complimented him often and given him presents. Why, then, did he ask that question? Was he annoyed because the poems in the book were love poems? Or was he hinting that Robi was taking unfair advantage of the press which was public property? Or was it the dedication that had offended him? Robi shivered a little at the thought. He had tried, genuinely tried, to forget Natun Bouthan and get on with his life. He had succeeded too. Except when it came to writing a dedication. Then he could think of no other person. Natun Bouthan’s face looked unfailingly out of the innocent white sheet before him. For Prakritir Pratishod he had taken care not to put down her name. ‘To you’ the dedication had run. Yet he had seen members of his family exchange meaningful glances. Gyanadanandini’s face had hardened and Swarnakumari had passed a snide comment. In consequence he had left the dedication page blank for his next volume Nalini. And, now, he was about to publish Bhanu Singhér Padavali. Bhanu was her name for him. But for her the poems would never have been written. Not taking her name he had written: You entreated me often to publish these poems. I have done so. But you are not here to see them in print.’

  The horses stumbled over a rut in the road making the carriage rock precariously and startling Robi out of his thoughts. Then, when the vehicle started running smoothly once again, the words he was struggling to shut out clamoured in his brain, ‘How many books a year do you mean to print from the Brahmo Press?’ Why had Baba Moshai asked that question? Was it because his books didn’t sell? They lay in piles in the shops of the People’s Library, Sanskrit Press Depository and Canning Library and didn’t bring in a pie. Bankim Babu’s books sold like hot cakes and were even pirated. Perhaps Baba Moshai was hinting that there was no point in publishing book after book if no one was interested in buying them! Robi’s heart sank at the thought.

  Suddenly an idea struck him. A gentleman called Gurudas Chattopadhyay had recently opened a shop called Bengal Medical Library which sold poetry and fiction along with medical books. He would go and see him. Leaning out of the window he instructed the coachman to drive to College Street where the Bengal Medical Library was housed. Entering the shop Robi inspected the shelves with interest. Bankim Babu’s novels took up the maximum space. Michael Madhusudan’s and Hem Banerjee’s works filled a couple of shelves. There were copies of Tarak Ganguli’s Swarnalata, Kaliprasanna Singha’s Hutom Pyanchar Naksha and Nabin Sen’s Palashir Judhha but not one of his books. Robi sighed. People did not care to read lyrics. They liked narrative and action.

  Gurudas Babu greeted Robi with the deference due to him. Though not much of a writer he was, after all, Deben Thakur’s son. Leading him into a small anteroom he invited him to sit down and ordered the servant to bring an albola and paan for his refreshment. These initial courtesies over, and after some preliminary discussion, he came out with a proposal that startled Robi. He would buy the eight thousand unsold copies of twelve of Robi’s books for a fixed sum of money. Thereafter, he would sell them at his own price. Robi would have no claims to royalty or commission. The sum he mentioned was staggering. After some calculation he offered Robi the princely sum of two thousand three hundred and nine rupees.

  So much money! From his books? Heaps of paper that would have turned to food for termites in a few months! Robi could hardly believe his ears. The thought of bargaining never even occurred to him. Thanking Gurudas Babu profusely he rose to leave. After many days his heart felt light and free. Yet—not quite. ‘If only she were here to share my triumph!’ The thought cast a shadow over his happiness.

  On his way back home Robi started making plans. He would celebrate this great event in his life by inviting his friends for a feast. He would call Priyanath Sen, Shreesh Majumdar and Akshay Choudhary. His little bride was growing into quite a good cook. She was still attending school though she hadn’t gone back to Gyanadanandini. She was taken to Loretto House every morning in the carriage dressed in a frock and long stockings. But back home she was often seen in the kitchen wearing a sari and giving instructions to the cooks in the voice and manner of a middle-aged matron. Then she didn’t seem so young anymore.

  After dinner that night the discussion veered around the subject of Bankimchandra’s writing. The latter’s son-in-law had recently started a newspaper called Prachaar. Bankimchandra was writing regularly for it as well as for Akshay Sarkar’s Nabajeeban. And, lately, both his columns and novels were displaying a Hindu chauvinism that Robi found distasteful. Anandamath was bad enough, in his opinion. Debi Choudhurani, which followed, was even worse. Hitherto he had restrained himself from expressing any derogatory remarks. But today he felt free to do so. They were both writers and his books were selling too. Why should he continue to stand in awe of Bankimchandra? ‘I consider Anandamath a very mediocre work,’ he announced gravely. ‘The characters are flat and boring. And it is full of melodrama.’ Shreeshchandra, a great admirer of Bankim, took umbrage at this remark and a lively argument ensued lasting far into the night.

  After the guests had departed Robi came into his apartment. Despite the long day he felt wide awake and far from weary. He was sleeping less and less these days and he hated lying in bed staring into the dark. He came and stood on the veranda and gazed out into the star filled sky. Suddemy he heard a sigh that seemed wrenched out of a suffering soul: He turned around his heart beating swiftly. ‘Where did that come from?’ he thought. ‘It sounded like Natun Bouthan!’ And, at that moment, he thought he saw something slip past like a shadow. A tremor of fear passed through him. Was Natun Bouthan’s ghost hovering around him? Nonsense! Robi gave himself a little shake and walked purposefully into the bedroom.

  On the vast bedstead Mrinalini lay fast asleep curled up in a corner. She looked very young and vulnerable as she lay there. Her pink sari was pulled down to her feet and strands of hair clung to her face. Robi looked down on the little figure with tenderness in his eyes. ‘Poor girl,’ he thought. ‘She’s worn out with the labours of the day.’ And, indeed, Mrinalini had played hostess to her husband’s friends like any grown wife. She had cooked some of the dishes and served them with her own hands. Suddenly a realization dawned on Robi. They hardly ever spoke to each other. There was no possibility of doing so during the day and she was, invariably, fast asleep when Robi came in at night. Robi took a decision. He would bury the past once and for all.

  Moving swiftly towards the bed he lifted the mosquito net and lay down beside her. On other nights he did so softly, stealthily, so as not to wake her. But, tonight, he took her face in his hands and pushed the clinging strands of hair away from her face. Mrinalini opened her eyes. He saw no awe or fear in them—only an eager longing. Tenderly, with his forefinger, he outlined first her mouth, then her eyes and chin as though he was etching her face on paper. Mrinalini put out a little hand and closed her soft damp palm over those long sensitive fingers. Robi took her in his arms and clasped her to his breast. ‘This is right,’ he thought. ‘This is as it should be. It is far better to live with flesh and blood than with shadows.’

  Chapter XXXII
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  Maharaja Birchandra Manikya was returning from a social visit to Sir Rivers Thompson, the Lieutenant Governor of Bengal. Monomohini had been invited too and had clamoured to go but Birchandra had snubbed her into submission. Queens of the Chandravansha dynasty didn’t show their faces in public. He had taken Shashibhushan instead. He could converse in English after a fashion but not too well. He could do with Shashibhushan’s help.

  Now, sitting in the carriage on the way back, Birchandra’s face looked grim and sullen and angry tears glistened in his eyes. He felt hurt and humiliated. He hadn’t, of course, been mistreated in any way. He had been received with due deference and no political pressure had been inflicted on him. His host had given him tea and enquired politely after his wife and they had chatted briefly on several subjects for about twenty-five minutes. The humiliation lay in the look the white man had given him. Rivers Thompson was a very tall man and erect in his bearing. While shaking hands he had looked down from his great height at the portly little specimen of royalty he was entertaining. The pale blue eyes had looked pointedly at Birchandra’s stomach and the lips had twitched a little. So little—it was almost invisible. But Birchandra was no fool. He recognized contempt when he saw it. And he was very, very sensitive. ‘I shouldn’t have gone,’ he thought bitterly. ‘After all I am king of a realm, however small, and he’s only a civil servant.’ But in his heart he knew that a refusal was out of the question. An invitation from the Laat Saheb was like a royal command. It was a reminder that the British had it in their power to whisk his crown off his head at any time they chose.

  Birchandra had a happy disposition in general. But once thwarted or humiliated he brooded over his wrongs for days. In order to cheer him up Shashibhushan organized a symposium of letters. Well-known poets and prose writers like Sisir Kumar Ghosh, Rabindranath Thakur and Dineshchandra Sen, were invited to read from their works. The king sat in state amongst them in the durbar hall on the second floor but his face remained drawn and his manner abstracted. After a while he rose and left the room.

  The next day Shashibhushan invited a group of kirtaniyas. They were the top performers of Calcutta and were invited often by the Raja of Shobhabazar who was a connoisseur of music. But though Birchandra loved listening to kirtan he didn’t seem to think much of them. After sitting quietly for a few minutes he poked Shashibhushan in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Where is that girl?’ he asked quite out of context. Shashibhushan was so startled by the question that though he opened his mouth to speak no words came. ‘You know who I mean,’ the king persisted. ‘That Suto or Suta—whatever her name is. Send for her. I want to hear her sing tonight in my bedchamber. She has a good voice.’ Shashi drew a deep breath and said, ‘She’s ill Maharaj.’

  ‘What!’ the Maharaja exclaimed. ‘She’s been ill for so long and you’ve done nothing about it! Do you want to kill her? Send for the doctor at once. What are her symptoms?’

  ‘Fever Maharaj. It comes and goes.’

  ‘That’s a bad sign. She needs treatment immediately. Come,’ he rose to his feet. ‘Take me to her. I wish to see her with my own eyes.’

  Now, Shashibhushan’s face turned pale. If the king saw Bhumisuta he would know that Shashibhushan had been spinning a web of lies all these days. ‘Why should you go Maharaj?’ he cried out in his desperation. ‘I’ll bring her to you.’ But the king shook his head. ‘There’s no need to pull her out of her sickbed,’ he said. ‘She needs her rest. I’ll look in on her and give her some medicine.’

  Shashibhushan hurried after the king as he walked purposefully towards the stairs his shoes clacking loudly on the marble floor. Downstairs all was dark and silent. Birchandra stood for a moment at the head of the stairs a queer smile on his lips. ‘Wait a little Maharaj,’ Shashibhushan said. ‘Let me fetch a light.’ But the king put out a hand and stopped him. ‘You know Shashi,’ he said conversationally, ‘I thought nothing of barging into the servants’ rooms when I was young. If I saw a pretty wench I would carry her upstairs however much she cried and protested. But I’m older and wiser now. I realize that it is not proper for a man in my position to enter a maid’s bedchamber. You should have stopped me. I’m your master and your king. How could you forget your duty to me?’

  Shashibhushan stood silent, his head bowed. He knew that whatever he said would be misconstrued. To keep mute was best. ‘Get the wench out of her sickbed and send her to me. She’s too precious a gem to be thrown carelessly into the ash heap. Send for the best doctors. And don’t stint on the expense. I give you three days,’ Birchandra wagged his forefinger at Shashibhushan threateningly, turned around and made his way back to the durbar hall. Shashibhushan breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close shave. But the danger hadn’t passed. The Maharaja was determined to have Bhumisuta and she was equally determined not to let him. ‘Send me away from here,’ she repeated like a parrot every time he told her that the king wanted to see her. But where could he send her? To his ancestral home in Bhabanipur? He could do that but what would he tell the king when he asked for her? What if he came to know that Shashibhushan had removed her to his own house? The king and queen had been invited to Bhabanipur once by his brothers. What if the invitation was repeated?

  Bhumisuta! Bhumisuta! A fierce resentment rose in Shashibhushan’s breast. He was being forced to think of her day and night. No woman had occupied his thoughts to such an extent after Suhasini’s death. He had been married to Suhasini for five years when she died of cholera. She had been a beautiful woman and well educated. He had poured out his soul to her in love. He had given her everything she had ever wanted. Ignoring the frowns of his sisters-in-law he had taken her with him wherever he went. They had enjoyed holidays in Darjeeling and Nepal. And, every night, he had sat with her teaching her Sanskrit and English. He had placed a standing order in Cuthbertson’s Perfumery. A bottle of every new perfume that arrived from France was to be sent to his wife. But despite everything he did, he hadn’t won Suhasini’s heart. That had been given to another. He had come to know, some months before she died, that she was deeply involved with her cousin Anangamohan and had been so from before her marriage. Shashibhushan hadn’t said a word to Suhasini. He had simply withdrawn from her. She hadn’t seemed real anymore and when she died he had felt no grief.

  Anangamohan couldn’t have felt much grief either. Shashibhushan knew that he had transferred his affections to Suhasini’s sister Tarangini before her ashes had cooled. Yet he was the one Suhasini had loved. The thought was too humiliating; too hard to bear. His brother Monibhushan had suggested that he take Tarangini as his second wife. Horrified by the idea Shashi had escaped to Tripura. He had made up his mind. He wouldn’t marry again—ever. He had lost his faith in women.

  That night Bhumisuta came into his room as usual with the glass of hot milk he drank just before going to sleep. She placed the silver glass on a little table and was about to leave the room when Shashibhushan stopped her. ‘Wait,’ he called out imperiously, ‘I wish to speak with you.’ Bhumisuta turned around but stood where she was. She didn’t approach him. ‘The Maharaja was enquiring about you this evening,’ he said. ‘How much longer can I go on telling him you are ill? What is wrong with singing for him?’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ Bhumisuta answered. Her voice was soft but firm.

  ‘But why?’ Shashibhushan persisted. ‘You must give me a reason. The Maharaja is determined to hear you sing. You’ll have to satisfy him—’

  ‘Send me away.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. The Maharaja has given me three days. At the end of it you’ll have to go to him.’

  ‘No one can force me.’ Bhumisuta’s eyes flashed. ‘I’ll slit my throat first. I’ve managed to get hold of a knife.’

  Shashibhushan stared at her in shock and horror. And suddenly he recognized the alien streak in her. She looked and spoke like an average middle-class Bengali girl. But she wasn’t that. What Bengali girl could express herself with so much power and passion? He went on staring at he
r. For the first time since Suhasini’s death he had actually looked at a woman. ‘She can’t be what she appears,’ he thought. ‘She can’t be an ordinary maid.’ He put out his hand saying, ‘Let me see it.’ Bhumisuta stared back at him. ‘I don’t have it with me,’ she said. ‘I’ve hidden it in my Shashibhushan knew he ought to go down, inspect her room and take the knife away. But he made no effort to do so. ‘I’ve never heard you sing,’ he said instead.

  ‘I sing only for myself and God.’

  ‘I won’t force you Bhumisuta,’ Shashibhushan heard himself saying. He was amazed at the tenderness in his voice. ‘Don’t sing for the Maharaja if you don’t want to. But will you sing for me? Just one song—?’

  room.’

  Chapter XXXIII

  The devout Rani Rasmoni’s spirit had left her mortal frame these many years. And her faithful servant and son-in-law Mathur had passed away. The present owners of the estates had neither the time nor the inclination to worry their heads about the temple their ancestress had created and cherished and nurtured with her life blood. Consequently they did not even know that Ramkrishna Thakur was seriously ill.

  He had been suffering from a bad throat and violent fits of coughing for a long time now. The disciples had called in several doctors most of whom were of the opinion that the malady was not serious. Clergyman’s Sore Throat some of them called it. They recommended a diet of strengthening meat soups and left medicines. But none of it seemed to help. The pain in his throat increased day by day and his limbs felt weaker and weaker. His disciples were growing in number and he had to sit with them and talk to them even when the pain in his throat was excruciating. During one of his bhav samadhis he had called out to the Goddess in a sullen voice, ‘Why do you send so many Ma? They crowd around me so—I don’t get a moment’s peace. It’s only a cracked drum as it is. How much longer can it withstand so much battering?’

 

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