First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Though the owners of the temple took no notice of his illness his disciples did all they could to alleviate his sufferings. It was decided that the damp rising from the Ganga was doing him no good. He ought to be shifted to a warmer, drier place. Thus, Ramkrishna was removed from Dakshineswar, where he had lived for thirty years, and brought to Balaram Bosu’s house in Ramkanta Bosu Street in Calcutta. Ramkrishna was pleased to be there. Balaram Bosu was one of his favourite disciples. Besides there were many others living close at hand. Vidyasagar’s Metropolitan College being only a stone’s throw away, Mahendra Mukherjee could visit him several times a day. Girish Ghosh, at Bagbazar, was within walking distance.

  After that first visit to the theatre Ramkrishna had gone there often. And he had drawn the blaspheming atheist, Girish, to him like a magnet. Girish, who had rejected the concept of the guru being the medium through which one reached the divine, felt himself drawn into Ramkrishna’s web slowly but surely. He tried to disentangle himself from time to time much as a drunk tries to shake off his intoxication. ‘What is a guru?’ he had enquired once of Ramkrishna. Ramkrishna’s lips had twitched with amusement. ‘You should know,’ he had answered, ‘You have one.’ Girish was horrified. What was the man saying? Who was his guru? This illiterate yokel in his coarse dhuti and uduni? Impossible! In order to shake off Ramkrishna’s spell Girish started misbehaving with him. He would walk into his room in Dakshineswar whenever he felt like it, stone drunk, trying to pick up a quarrel. But even though he reviled the priest and his fourteen generations hurling the foulest expletives in his vocabulary, he failed to get a reaction from him. Ramkrishna smiled as if at a little boy’s tantrums and looked at him out of loving eyes.

  His every move defeated, Girish tried to rationalize the situation. No human being, he reasoned with himself, should be exalted to the level of a spiritual medium between Man and God. Ramkrishna claimed to be such a medium. Girish could not admit his claim. Yet, he couldn’t deny his power over him either. There was some force in him that defied definition. Therefore, it was obvious that Ramkrishna was no ordinary man. He was an avatar of the Divine. Ram and Krishna were twin incarnations of that one single Power and they had come together in the person of Ramkrishna. Having admitted this Girish surrendered himself body and soul to the priest of Kali. And thus he found peace.

  But Naren and several others could not admit that Ramkrishna was anything other than an ordinary mortal. If he was an avatar of God, they argued, why was he suffering in the flesh? Avatars were untouched by sickness and old age. Who had ever heard of Lord Krishna of Mathura and Lord Ram of Ayodhya suffering from fever or dysentery. Ramkrishna was a victim of both. He had a weak digestion and felt the urge to empty his bowels several times a day. And he caught chills and fevers often. Only the other day he had fallen and broken his arm and had to have it plastered. And, now, the pain in his throat was so bad that he spent his nights tossing and turning in his bed moaning in agony.

  Of late Ramkrishna had started behaving like a child. If the doctor was late by even a few minutes he would sulk pettishly, ‘Oh why doesn’t he come? Why doesn’t someone go and fetch him?’ And every time anyone came near him he asked eagerly, ‘I’ll get well, won’t I? Do you think this new medicine will cure me?’ Allopathic medicines being too strong for him his disciples had called in the renowned homeopath Pratapchandra Majumdar. His pills brought the patient some relief but it was only temporary. The disease that racked him continued to grow insidiously within. He started coughing up bits of blood and found it more and more difficult to swallow. Now the doctors had to admit that what he suffered from was something more serious than Clergyman’s Sore Throat.

  One day the famous kaviraj Gangaprasad came to see him. After examining the patient’s throat, he shook his head. ‘He is suffering from rohini,’ he said, ‘We have no cure for it.’

  ‘What is rohini?’ the disciples surrounding him asked.

  ‘The sahebs call it cancer.’

  Those among Ramkrishna’s followers who lived by the assumption that faith was superior to logic were convinced that he could shake the disease off his system if he so wished; Pandit Sasadhar Tarka Churhamani accosted him one day with the words, ‘How is it possible that a saint like you suffers thus?’

  ‘It is not I who suffer,’ Ramkrishna replied, it’s this wretched body.’

  ‘But surely you have control over your body. The shastras say that men like you have the power to dismiss the ills of the flesh. If, during a bhav samadhi, you concentrate on the organ that is troubling you; if you focus your whole mind and spirit on it you will be enabled to overcome the disease.’

  ‘What!’ Ramkrishna cried passionately, ‘You, a pandit, ask me to do such a thing! My mind and spirit have been consecrated to God. Would you have me turn them away from Him to this broken cage of bones and flesh?’

  Sasadhar did not say any more. But he thought Ramkrishna’s argument a feeble one. He was convinced that Ramkrishna’s illness had robbed him of some of his powers. If his broken cage of bones and flesh meant nothing to him why was he describing his symptoms to one doctor after another and asking them if he would live? Why was he taking medicine?

  A week after this encounter Ramkrishna left Balaram Bosu’s house and took up residence in a rented house in Shyampukur Street. Balaram Bosu was a devout and faithful follower of Ramkrishna. But he was somewhat of a miser. He didn’t mind spending on his guru. He was prepared to give him all the comforts his house could offer and also pay for his treatment. What he grudged was the expense he had to incur on the crowds who came to see him every day. Ramkrishna had other wealthy followers who were prepared to spend money on him. It was decided to keep him in a rented house.

  At dusk, on the ninth day of the waning moon, Ramkrishna stepped over the threshold of the house in Shyampukur Street and looked around him with interest. A neatly made up bed stood ready in one corner. On the walls were several pictures. Ramkrishna examined them by the light of a lamp held up by Ramchandra Datta. There was one of Balgopal with Jashoda Ma and another of Sri Gouranga dancing with his disciples. As Ramkrishna peered up at them one of his followers whispered to another, ‘See! He is looking at himself.’ The very next moment the man got a shock. Ramkrishna turned around and asked fretfully, ‘Why have they kept the window open? I feel a draught coming in. I’m chilled to the bone.’

  In the house in Shyampukur Street Ramkrishna’s condition started deteriorating at an alarming pace and his disciples were at their wits’ end. So many doctors had come and gone but not one had been able to alleviate his sufferings let alone effect a cure. The only doctor left was Mahendralal Sarkar. But Ramkrishna cried out fearfully every time his name was mentioned. ‘No. No. Not him,’ Ramkrishna found Mahendralal Sarkar an extremely alarming personality. Once, several months ago, he had been taken to the doctor’s house in Shankharitola. Mahendralal Sarkar had been very short with the disciples who had brought him. Bundling them out of the room, most unceremoniously, he had fixed a stern eye on the priest and motioned him to a chair. ‘Open your mouth,’ he had commanded in the tone he used for all his patients. On Ramkrishna’s doing so he had snapped, ‘Wider! How can I look down your throat if you don’t open your mouth properly?’ Ramkrishna had tried to tell him that he was doing his best but that had brought on the most shocking response. ‘Quiet!’ the doctor had thundered, ‘Don’t move your tongue.’ And he had held Ramkrishna’s tongue firmly in place with a spoon. It had been a painful experience for Ramkrishna both physically and otherwise and he didn’t care to repeat it.

  Now, of course, the pain was much worse. He felt as if a knife was sticking in his throat cutting into his palate and food pipe every time he swallowed. Of late even his ears had started hurting. And he had started vomiting blood. The disciples couldn’t afford to take their guru’s terror of the great doctor seriously any more. They sent for Mahendralal Sarkar.

  That evening Dr Sarkar came to the house in Shyampukur Street. Entering Ramkrishna’s
room he looked around for somewhere to sit. The disciples were alarmed at the sight of him striding in arrogantly on leather shod feet into a place consecrated by the presence of their guru. But Ramkrishna merely patted one side of the bed on which he lay and motioned to him to sit down which he did without hesitation.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ the doctor asked with a rare gentleness. ‘I feel a swelling in my throat the size of a roseapple. The air is pushed back into my mouth whenever I try to swallow.’

  ‘Do you have a cough?’

  ‘I cough all night. Then the pus pours out of my mouth as thick as castor oil.’

  ‘Do you have any pain?’

  ‘I feel as if a knife is sticking in my throat. I can’t sleep for the pain.’

  ‘Open your mouth. Let me have a look at your throat.’ Ramkrishna obeyed, his eyes fixed fearfully on the stern face just above his. Looking down into the torn, bleeding ravaged organ the doctor murmured, ‘Why are you afraid of me? I’m a doctor. I try to cure people—not kill them.’

  After a while he stood up, his face grave. ‘I’m leaving medicines,’ he said with a return to his habitual curtness. ‘Take them regularly. And talk as little as possible. The world can do without your eloquence—for the present at least.’

  On his way out he turned to the men accompanying him and asked, ‘Does this house belong to Rani Rasmoni?’ ‘No sir,’ one of them hastened to inform him. ‘This is a rented house. Some of Thakur’s disciples pay for it.’

  ‘Disciples!’ Mahendralal Sarkar exclaimed, ‘Does this man have disciples? I thought he was being kept by the Madhs of Janbazar. Which ones among you ate his disciples?’

  On being told that they were all Ramkrishna’s disciples including Naren and the other graduates, the doctor’s brows rose in astonishment. He could understand semi-literate men in their prime looking for a prop on which to rest their burden of sins. But that young men like Narendranath Datta—educated, rational and Westernized in their thinking—could be drawn into the web of the rustic he had just left behind was unthinkable! And Girish. That self-proclaimed atheist! Mahendralal was shocked at the transformation in him. The disciples, in their turn, were shocked when he returned the fee they offered.

  ‘What is this for?’ he asked sternly.

  ‘Your fee, sir’ one of them replied. ‘Thakur’s disciples are paying for his treatment.’

  ‘I’m not a disciple,’ Mahendralal said shortly, ‘But you may add my name to the list of contributors. I don’t need to be paid any fees. Nor anything for the medicines I leave. I warn you though. The patient is in a very serious condition. He needs rest and quiet. Stop outsiders from coming in and disturbing him.’

  After the doctor had left the men looked at one another in dismay. How would they fend off the crowds that gathered at the door at all hours of the day? Thakur had been relatively undisturbed in Dakshineswar—it being a good distance away from Calcutta. But, here, word had spread that a fragment of dust from the feet of the Paramhansa would ensure a smooth passage to heaven. After a lot of discussion, it was finally decided that the younger disciples would keep vigil outside Ramkrishna’s door and try to prevent people from entering his room.

  One day a follower of Ramkrishna’s named Kali Ghosh brought a young man with him. He looked like a foreigner in his impeccable Western suit and rimless glasses. Niranjan, at the door, tried to stop them from coming in but Kali Ghosh waved aside his protests. After being locked in an argument for over an hour Niranjan had to surrender and allow the older man entry. The foreign gentleman took no part in the exchange. His face was serene and unruffled and his gaze elsewhere.

  But the moment he stepped into Ramkrishna’s room he took off his glasses and his hat. Everyone looked on him, amazed, for out tumbled a cloud of silky black curls. ‘Pardon me, Prabhu,’ a woman’s voice cried, ‘I wanted to see you once—for the last time.’ The stranger sank to the floor and placed her head on Ramkrishna’s feet. Ramkrishna recognized the voice instantly. It was Binodini’s. Ramkrishna laughed—peal after peal of delighted laughter. ‘This is true love,’ he cried out in a hoarse, cracked voice, ‘True yearning!’ But, looking on his emaciated faee and body, Binodini wept as if her heart would break. Resisting Ramkrishna’s feeble efforts to raise her she pressed her face on his feet and washed them with her tears.

  On her way home, in the carriage, Binodini drew out a little mirror from her pocket. Her face was a mess. The paint she had applied for the part was running in streams down her cheeks. Taking a kerchief from her pocket she proceeded to wipe it off when she noticed a spot on her chin—unnaturally white. She had seen it earlier and ignored it. But now, peering closer, she thought it had grown larger. Something else was growing within her—a conviction that her acting days were coming to an end. She wondered what her affliction was. Was it leucoderma? Or leprosy? ‘Why am I being punished thus?’ she thought, fresh tears pouring down her face, ‘What sin have I committed?’ And, at that moment, she took a decision. She would give up the stage. Her admirers had idolized her for years. She wouldn’t show her cursed face, marked by the hand of God, to them ever again.

  Chapter XXXIV

  It was a hot moonless night of early summer. Beads of sweat dotted Bharat’s bare back as he stood on the balcony gazing out into the night. The gas lamps had not been lit, for some reason, and the city was in darkness. Dwarika had left him a while ago after a futile effort to make him a partner in his nocturnal ventures. He had tried every wile. He had told him that Basantamanjari was pining away for love of him. But Bharat had stood firm. This was not for the first time and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. But though he resisted Dwarika’s persuasions every time, he hadn’t forgotten Basantamanjari. Her face swam before his eyes day and night and he couldn’t understand why. Was it because she reminded him of Bhumisuta? But Bhumisuta’s gentle loveliness was in total contrast to Basantamanjari’s startling, exotic beauty. And she lacked the latter’s gorgeous plumage. Bhumisuta was a servant maid and her clothes, though clean, were well worn and frayed in places. It was the voice perhaps—low, musical with a haunting quality …

  Dhoop! Bharat turned his head at the familiar sound. The priest living next door was here. He jumped down from his window to the tiny terrace adjoining Bharat’s kitchen whenever he wanted some tea. ‘Why haven’t you lit the lantern brother?’ Bani Binod’s voice came to him from out of the dark. ‘I’ll light it in a minute,’ Bharat answered. He was pleased to see Bani Binod. Listening to his jabber he forgot his cares for the present. ‘And make some tea,’ he added. ‘There’s no need to rush,’ Bani Binod answered with a chuckle. ‘Today I have something for you.’ Setting an earthen pot on the floor he put his hand in and brought out a sandesh which was at least six times bigger than an ordinary one. ‘Come brother, eat,’ he said, pressing the sweetmeat into Bharat’s hand. ‘It’s excellent stuff I assure you. Especially ordered by royalty.’

  ‘Was there a feast at Rani Rasmoni’s palace today?’

  ‘No, no,’ Bani Binod waved his hand dismissively. ‘The Madhs of Janbazar have become very tight fisted. Besides, they aren’t royalty. This one is a true king. Big and strong and fair with moustaches that stand up on both ends like tongues of flame.’

  ‘Are you a royal priest then?’

  ‘I’m filling in for the priest who has gone back to Tripura to see his ailing son.’ Then, noting Bharat’s shocked look, he added, ‘It was you who told me about the Maharaja of Tripura. Have you forgotten?’

  Bharat’s heart started thumping so hard that he could hardly hear the rest of Bani Binod’s story. Bani Binod was the performing priest in Maharaja Birchandra’s household and was seeing Bhumisuta every day. He could think of nothing else.

  ‘What is the house like?’ he asked when the drumbeats in his blood had subsided a little.

  ‘You’ve never seen anything like it. All the floors—even the stairs and verandas are covered with red velvet. Except the puja room of course. And that is gleaming white marble.
As for the statues and chandeliers—’

  ‘How big is the puja room?’

  ‘At least four times the size of both your rooms put together.’ ‘Does someone help you with the puja?’

  ‘Two women are in attendance all the time. They keep flowers, tulsi, sandalpaste and gangajal in readiness and hand me whatever I need. I don’t have to move from my asan.’

  ‘Are they the king’s wives?’

  ‘You’re a numskull. Why should queens do menial work? Besides, the present queen is very young—I’m told. I’ve never seen her. Of the two maids who attend me one is an elderly woman. The other is in her thirties. They are good women and very respectful. They make it a point to touch their heads to my feet every morning.’ Bharat’s heart sank. Where was Bhumisuta then? Why was she not working in the puja room as she had done in the house of the Singhas? Had the king made her his mistress already?

  The thought depressed Bharat so much that he could barely eat or sleep for the next few days. And so, when Jadugopal invited him to visit his maternal uncle’s estate in Krishnanagar he accepted with alacrity. He needed a change badly. If he continued brooding over Bhumisuta’s fate any more he would go mad.

  ‘Look here, Bharat,’ Jadugopal eyed him sternly on their way to the station. ‘If you think I’m going to pay for your ticket you’re mistaken, And I’m not paying for your cigarettes either. And if you think you’ll be treated like a royal guest in my grandmother’s house—you can think again. You’ll get your meals of course—gram and ginger for breakfast and rice and dal twice a day. Don’t expect delicacies. My grandmother is an old lady and is often confined to bed. When that happens you’ll have to lend a hand with the cooking.’