First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  After his near banishment from the realms of Bharati by his sister, Robi directed all his energies on Balak—a periodical started by Gyanadanandini Devi. Along with the task of contributing a large member of articles a lot of the editorial responsibility also passed into his hands. Robi enjoyed going to Gyanadanandini’s house. His niece Bibi loved him deeply and couldn’t pass a single day without seeing her Robi Ka. She had turned thirteen now and was growing lovelier and lovelier every day. She was a meritorious student too and had a fine singing voice. She still wore skirts at times and behaved like a child particularly with Robi. She had a number of nicknames for him of which one was Buji. She would fling her arms around him the moment he arrived with cries of ‘Buji! Buji! Where have you been all this time?’

  Of late Robi had started taking her along with him to his literary meetings. And, wherever she went, Bibi became the cynosure of all eyes. People stared, fascinated, at her dazzling beauty, grace and elegance. The girls from the house of Jorasanko were renowned for their beauty and charm but this one seemed to outstrip them all. Unlike others from the first families of Calcutta, the Thakur girls were not being given away in marriage before they attained puberty. Swarnakumari Devi’s daughter had passed her Entrance but her parents weren’t even thinking of a suitable match. Another of Robi’s neices, Pratibha, a girl of extraordinary beauty and talent, was twenty and still unwed. Robi had turned matchmaker these days. He wanted his friend the barrister Ashu Choudhury to marry her.

  Bibi and Mrinalini were of the same age but Mrinalini was no companion to Robi. She was shy and retiring by nature and preferred staying within the confines of her father-in-law’s house to going out with her husband. In consequence, she was totally unknown outside the family. But Robi’s nights with her were tender and pleasant and between them Bibi and Mrinalini kept Robi floating on a sea of bliss. Kadambari’s memory had almost faded, only appearing in fits and starts in his poetry.

  One night Robi had a strange dream. He had been returning by train from Deoghar where he had gone on a visit to his father’s closest friend Rajnarayan Bosu. The latter had been seriously ill and it was a duty visit. But Robi had enjoyed his few days in Deoghar. His host was a charming old man and had entertained Robi with lively stories about the old days. Michael Madhusudhan Datta had been a class friend of Rajnarayan Bosu’s in Hindu College and, although Robi did not think much of Michael’s poetry, he enjoyed listening to the anecdotes of which the old man had a goodly stock. ‘Madhu had a very dark complexion,’ Rajnarayan said wagging his snowy beard, ‘and a voice that cracked easily. If anyone referred to the fact he invariably said, “I may be a voiceless cuckoo but at least I’m not a white duck and I don’t quack.” Madhu had turned native in his old age. If anybody, from old habit, called him Saheb he said, “Ohé I happen to have a mirror in my house and I can see my colour for myself. I’m not a saheb and will never become one except perhaps in the hereafter.”’

  Seeing that his host’s condition had improved considerably, Robi left Deoghar and returned to Calcutta. After getting into the train he climbed up to his upper berth in a second class compartment and prepared to go to sleep. But one of the lamps was right above his head and shone uncomfortably into his eyes. Putting out a hand he clicked the cover in place. There was an immediate reaction from some Anglo-Indian passengers in the compartment. They had been drinking all this while and talking in loud excited voices. Now one of them strode purposefully up to the lamp and, glaring balefully at Robi, clicked the cover open. The others rose to their feet and started flexing their muscles. Robi knew that they were getting ready for a fight. Sun-heated sand, he thought whimsically, was hotter than the sun itself. Robi returned the man’s stare for a few seconds then turned his eyes away. He wanted to blot the man’s face from his consciousness; wipe out the ugly compartment in which he was trapped with these drunken beasts. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep but sleep would not come. He tried to think of a plot for a story. Mental exercise of this kind always soothed his nerves and calmed his spirit. But that night his mind was in a whirl and would not focus on anything. He tossed and turned on his bunk for some hours then drifted into a fitful slumber. And, then, he dreamed a strange dream. He saw a man standing outside a temple holding a little girl by the hand. They were both staring at a stream of dark fluid trickling from the door of the temple down to the steps where they stood.

  Suddenly the girl gave an agonized cry, it’s blood! Blood!’ The man tried to pull her away but she kept on crying in a frightened voice, ‘But it’s blood! It’s blood!’ Robi woke up with a start. What was the meaning of this dream? He suddenly remembered something he had seen many years ago. He had been passing by the Kali temple at Thanthan. A goat had been slaughtered before the goddess and the blood was pouring out, over the threshold and on to the steps. Even as Robi watched in horror a low-caste woman bent down in reverence and, dipping her forefinger in the sacrificial blood, marked her infant’s forehead with it. Robi shivered as he remembered the scene.

  Returning to Calcutta Robi started writing Rajarshi, a historical novel depicting the life and times of Maharaja Gobindamanikya of the royal dynasty of Tripura. Rajarshi started appearing in serial form in Balak.

  One day Gyanadanandini said to him, ‘I’ve decided to put an end to Mrinalini’s education. There’s no sense in wasting money on her fees.’ Robi felt somewhat peeved. ‘Why?’ he asked defensively. He knew Mrinalini was not very keen on her studies. But surely that was no reason for putting an end to them. One had to go on trying. ‘It’s better for her to stay at home,’ Gyanadanandini laughed and flashed her eyes at her brother-in-law. ‘She shouldn’t move about too much in her present condition. What if she feels unwell in school?’

  ‘Feels unwell!’ Robi exclaimed, starded. ‘Why, what is wrong with her?’

  ‘As if you don’t know.’ Gyanadanandini laughed once again. ‘I don’t,’ Robi said. There was a trace of anxiety in his voice. ‘I really don’t. No one told me she was ill.’

  ‘What an innocent little boy he is!’ Gyanadanandini leaned forward and pinched Robi’s cheeks. ‘You’re about to become a father. Don’t you understand?’ Seeing the blood rush to Robi’s face in embarassment she added kindly, ‘Take your wife away somewhere for a change of air Robi. It will do her good.’

  But fate was against poor Mrinalini. Before Robi could make any plans news came from Bombay that his father was seriously ill. Debendranath had been spending the last few years either in the hills or by the sea. Looking out of the window from his sick bed he had hoped that this illness would be his last and that his soul would float away over the vast expanse of water to be merged with the Eternal and the Infinite. But that was not to be. Robi arrived at his father’s Bandra residence to find him considerably better and after a few days Debendranath left for Calcutta. Robi did not accompany him. Instead, he accepted his brother Satyendranath’s invitation to spend a few days in Nasik where the latter was posted.

  Once in Nasik he felt overwhelmed with remorse. Why hadn’t he thought of bringing Mrinalini? Mrinalini was nurturing his unborn child with her life blood. Who knew what she was going through? Poor girl! She asked for nothing and received nothing. He had never taken her out with him except for one brief visit to Sholapur where Satyendranath had been posted. And this time he had come away in such a hurry that he hadn’t even exchanged a few words with her before leaving Calcutta. The more he thought of his young wife the more he missed her. He remembered their days together in Sholapur. They had been alone for hours together, every day, for the first time and it was there, in Sholapur, that they had consummated their marriage. It had been a wild rainy afternoon and they had loved each other with all the frenzy and passion of youth. Shutting his eyes he could still feel her warm young body throbbing against his.

  Taking up his pen he wrote:

  Cast off your garment!

  Strip the veil away from your face

  Wear only the beauty of your nakedness.

 
Robi had never written such words before but now they came to him easily.

  Girl Goddess!

  Wrap yourself in moonbeams

  Through whose clear light is visible

  The unfolding lotus of your corporeal form.

  Chapter XXXVI

  The sunshine streaming into the room awoke Shashibhushan. Opening his eyes with difficulty he discovered the figure of a young woman framed against a square of white light which was a window. It was only when she moved away to the next and proceeded to open it that he saw it was Bhumisuta. Shashibhushan was puzzled. Why was Bhumisuta opening his windows? He had never seen her doing so before. And then he remembered that he always slept with his windows wide open. He wondered who had closed them and why.

  After Bhumisuta had left the room he rose from his bed and walked over to the window. The trees and grass outside were wet and the air was cool and moist. He realized what had happened. A shower of rain had come while he slept and someone had closed the windows to keep out the gusts of wind and rain. Who was that someone? Bhumisuta?

  Shashibhushan went back to his bed. He could do with some more sleep. The Maharaja had invited some singers last night and the performance had gone on till the small hours. The Maharaja loved music and could listen to it for several days and nights at a stretch. But Shashibhushan had started dozing off soon after midnight. Laying his head once again on the pillow he thought, ‘The Maharaja will rest all day. There’ll be nothing for me to do. I’ll go back to sleep.’

  At this moment Bhumisuta entered the room bearing a tray on which was placed a cup of tea with a couple of biscuits in the saucer, and half a glass of lime water. Shashibhushan drank lime water before his tea every morning. It helped to clear the bowels. Putting the tray down on a small table Bhumisuta said softly, ‘Your bath water is ready. Shall I tell them to send it in?’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Shashibhushan answered, ‘I wish to sleep a little longer.’ Bhumisuta hesitated a little. ‘You have an appointment with the lawyer at eleven,’ she murmured, her eyes on the floor, it’s nearly ten o clock.’ Shashibhushan sat up in astonishment. It was true. There was an important case pending in the High Court and Radharaman had sent an urgent message to him to meet the lawyer. How could he have forgotten?

  Shashibhushan had a hurried bath and sat down to his breakfast of luchi and mohanbhog which Bhumisuta served to him, piping hot from the kitchen. He thought of how useful she was to him. Her service was perfection itself. She had only one defect. She would not communicate. She answered his questions with brief nods or at most a few words. He had not an inkling of what went on in that pretty head. And she was stubborn. The way she was putting off the king was becoming acutely embarrassing.

  The queen was getting bored with Calcutta and was urging her husband to return to Tripura. The king, too, had had enough of the premier city, it seemed. He had sent for Shashibhushan only yesterday and asked him to make arrangements for their return to Agartala. And he hadn’t forgotten Bhumisuta. ‘I wish to take the girl with me,’ he had said. ‘She’s been ailing here and a change of place will do her good. I’ll send her to Jompui for a few days. The keen, bracing mountain air will revive her—’ Shashibhushan looked at the door behind which Bhumisuta stood in readiness to serve him whatever he needed. ‘Get ready to leave for Tripura,’ he said. ‘The king will be leaving in a few days and wishes to take you with him.’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he rose and, gathering his papers, left the room.

  In the carriage, on his way to the High Court, Shashibhushan felt a trifle uneasy. The man he was about to meet was a pukka saheb named Umeshchandra Bandopadhyay popularly known as WC Bonnerjee. Would Shashibhushan’s knowledge of the English language and English etiquette stand the test of WC Bonnerjee’s exacting standards? He had a reputation for socializing only with Englishmen and speaking nothing but English. Yet, Shashibhushan knew for a fact that though his wife had converted to Christianity, he hadn’t. He was also an ardent champion of the country’s causes and had chaired the first meeting of the Indian National Congress in Bombay.

  Entering Umeshchandra’s chamber Shashibhushan saw him sitting at a table with four or five gentlemen facing him. He was a man in his early forties and wore a three-piece suit and rimless glasses. His hair was parted in the middle and combed neatly down the sides. He appeared to be amused by what was being said for a little smile quivered about his mouth. Shashibhushan recognized two of the other gentlemen. One was Maharshi Debendranath’s son-in-law Janakinath Ghoshal and the other was the lawyer Atulprasad Sen.

  The conversation, as he realized in a few minutes, centred around a marriage that had recently taken place in Calcutta. A young man named Tejeshchandra Ganguly, scion of a Kulin Brahmin family and a doctor with a medical degree from England, had married a Shudra nurse. A large section of society viewed this marriage as a shocking aberration and some of the gentlemen present were voicing the same opinion. But Janakinath Ghoshal seemed to be holding a staunch brief for the errant lovers.

  ‘Do you suppose for a moment,’ one of the gentlemen present questioned derisively, ‘that this man Ganguly married a Shudra in order to set an example and thereby help to remove caste prejudices? Nothing of the kind. He was in love with the woman and he married her to legitimize their shameful affair.’

  ‘What is so shameful about it?’ Janakinath took him up. ‘Europeans fall in love and marry after a period of courtship.’

  ‘This is not Europe,’ another man cut in sharply. ‘This is India. If men and women are allowed to mix freely our society will disintegrate and our moral values will be devastated.’ Everyone burst one laughing. Janakinath controlled himself with an effort and said, ‘We are not keeping our girls confined to the zenana anymore. We’re sending them out to get an education. How can we prevent them from meeting men? We have to move with the times.’

  Surprising Shashibhushan considerably, Umeshchandra Bandopadhyay spoke for the first time in flawless Bengali. ‘I’ve been hearing both sides of the debate for some time. And, now, I have a question for anyone who chooses to answer. In which caste category do the memsahebs belong? Our men have been bringing mem wives to this country for years now. I’ve heard no public outcry against them. Michael Madhusudan Datta married not one but two European ladies. But no one thought of treating him as an outcaste. Some of the leading men of Hindu society have wined and dined with him. Why all this fuss about a Shudra?’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ Janakinath clapped his hands in applause, ‘Excellent verdict! All’s fair in love!’ The gentleman who had been arguing shook his head smiling, ‘We don’t accept it. Umeshchandra is not a judge and delivering a verdict does not fall within his powers. He can ask questions—as many as he likes.’

  After the gentlemen had left Umeshchandra turned his attention to Shashibhushan and proceeded to brief himself about the case which the Maharaja had filed against a British company. It was a complicated case concerning the lease of one of the king’s tea gardens.

  Returning home Shashibhushan changed his clothes and waited for Bhumisuta to bring him something to eat. He usually had a small snack at this hour and Bhumisuta served it to him with her own hands. He waited for half an hour but she didn’t come. Perhaps she was unaware that he had returned. He went to the door and called, ‘Bhumi! Bhumi!’ but there was no response. Shashibhushan was puzzled. This was quite unlike her. Was she unwell? Really unwell this time? He came down the steps and stood outside her door. One of the panels was open and he could see the scene within. Rani Monomohini sat on the bare floor with her back to the wall and her legs stretched out in front. She had something in her hand which looked like tamarind pulp. From time to time she put out a little pink tongue and licked at it. Bhumisuta knelt in front of her. She was beating a pair of cymbals and singing softly. Shashibhushan knew that spying on the Maharani was the height of insolence but he couldn’t move from his place. It drew him like a magnet. Listening to the sweet voice for a while, he realized that Bhumisuta was si
nging one line over and over again as if she was teaching it to Monomohini.

  With a tremendous effort Shashibhushan wrenched himself away and came back to his room. A new fear assailed him. Monomohini had seen Bhumisuta and would tell the king that there was nothing wrong with her. The king would call Shashibhushan and demand an explanation. Why had Bhumisuta exposed herself to the queen? Was she, after all, keen to go to Tripura? To become the king’s mistress? The thought was unbearable—though he did not know why.

  Bhumisuta came in after a while. She had a plate of sweetmeats in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Glancing at the dish Shashibhushan saw his favourite sesame balls and coconut half moons. ‘Wait,’ Shashibhushan commanded as, placing them on a small table, Bhumisuta proceeded to leave the room. Bhumisuta turned around and looked enquiringly as Shashibhushan’s eyes raked her form. What an unusual way she had of wearing her sari! The upper half was wound tightly over her bare breasts and the tower half fell halfway between her knees and ankles. Her hair was twisted into a knot which swung loosely on the nape of her neck. Her eyes had the soft, moist look of one in a dream. ‘Get ready to go to Tripura,’ he said though that had not been his intention a moment ago. Then, seeing the look of surprise in her eyes, he added desperately, ‘You will need some saris. The Maharaja likes Murshidabad silk. I shall buy some and you can pick out what you like.’